


Fairytale Ending

by adlyb



Category: The Vampire Diaries & Related Fandoms, The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Hostage Situations, I'm going to be adding tags as I go along, M/M, Multi, New Orleans, Suicide Attempt, Threesome - F/M/M, and the rating is going to go up eventually too, be prepared for this to go in all sorts of directions, just my typical angst-horror-romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-24 13:30:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 77,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6155208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adlyb/pseuds/adlyb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU post 3x05, The Reckoning. Klaus takes his girl and his hybrid and gets out of that one pony town. But what will Elena do when she realizes Klaus wants her for more than just her blood? And how will she survive living in close quarters with Rebekah without someone winding up dead? A slowburn Klaus/Elena, also featuring Stefan/Elena, Stefan/Rebekah, and more. Rating will eventually increase.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

 

 

 

 

 

This is the family that Elena never knew to want; it’s a nightmare configuration that makes her head ache to try to disentangle but that she can’t imagine ever doing without.

It starts like this.

 _“Is that what this is about? Your obsession with hybrids? You just don’t want to be_ alone _?”_

 _“What I_ want _is to take my girl, take my hybrid, and get the hell out of this one pony town.”_

Or so she hears.

 

 

 

 

  

Senior Prank Night opens up the future and the vision Elena gets of it is like looking down a long tunnel full of jagged teeth.

She’s so out of it that when Stefan pulls her from the hospital bed, she forgets everything and wanders back to last spring, when they were just two kids in love _(sort of)_.

The truth hits harder than that.

“Lovely to see you awake, my dear.”

Klaus’s words wash through her in the wake of her consciousness.

She opens her eyes to find herself in a pale green room, the shades drawn against the murky morning light, and Klaus in an armchair at her bedside.

“Where am I?”

“You don’t recall?”

She frowns at him and tries to sit up, but her muscles feel heavy and uncooperative. Elena settles back against the pile of pillows behind her and lifts her chin instead. “You had that nurse taking my blood. Why?”

Klaus leans over, resting his elbows on his knees and his jaw on the bridge of his hands. “You’re evidently _much_ more precious than I had thought.”

Confused, she is about to press him further when the door bursts open and Rebekah and Stefan fumble into the room.

Elena’s stomach lurches at the sight of them.

Blood fans across their faces like war-paint. Vermilion handprints map every caress they shared as they butchered their victims.

Stefan slings an arm around Rebekah’s shoulder and gives Elena a friendly nod and a wave.

Klaus’s mouth twists into something like a smile. He lounges back into his chair, submerges himself in shadow. “Welcome to the family.”

 

 

 

 

 

She spends the rest of the day in bed, still too weak to move.

The bandage on her neck itches, almost as much as the scabs winding up and down her arms. If it were just the arm scabs, she thinks she could have dealt with the discomfort, but the wound on her neck won’t let her forget the feeling of Stefan’s teeth in her. She’s emotionally drained, too tired to deal with the memory of Stefan’s emotionless, inhuman eyes, but the physical reminder won’t let her forget.

The others leave her alone for the afternoon. She thinks she must be like an _object_ to them, a _plaything_ , something to use when they want and forget about when they don’t. Elena is thankful for her time alone. She doesn’t think she can see Stefan like that again and hold onto her sanity.

She’s still too weak to stand but she spends her time searching for clues anyway. She doesn’t know where she is, exactly, or how long it’s been since Senior Prank Night.

What she does have a pretty good handle on is the state of her body. She knows she’s lost too much blood. She remembers, vaguely, realizing that Klaus was taking her blood—he had confirmed as much earlier, before Stefan and Rebekah had interrupted them. Judging from how she felt, he’d taken _a lot_. The question is, why?

She lifts her arm and peers at the line of scabs and dark yellowing bruises moving up and down the length of it. Her fingers dig under her neck bandage to toy with the rough, dry edges of the scabbed-over wound there. A few days have passed since she received these injuries, she’s sure of it. That answers one of her questions.

The room itself provides very little in the way of information. The blinds to the single window are snapped shut and she cannot reach them from her bed. There’s only one door, built from solid oak that will let no sound from outside her room to pass into it. No pictures hang upon the pale green walls. The double-bed she lies on, piled high with pillows and warm blankets, is the primary feature of the room. It faces the door and a dark wooden dresser bare of anything atop it. She does not yet know whether there is anything within it. Off to the side, pushed against the wall, is a bedside table on wheels, the kind found in hospitals that can be rolled up to the bed to ease eating and drinking. The chair Klaus had lounged in sits across from her bedside.

Elena has no choice but to wait for further answers.

Around dusk, the door opens.

Elena expects Klaus, yearns for Stefan, and fears Rebekah.

Bewilderingly, she gets Tyler.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

He shuffles his feet, and Elena flatters him enough to think he looks guilty.

“Klaus asked me to come along,” he mumbles, eyes on the floor.

_“Why?”_

He looks up at her. “I’m his first hybrid. I’m an asset, you know?” His eyes glow feverishly as he speaks, and Elena realizes she’s misjudged him completely. There’s something off about her friend—something changed in him since his neck was snapped. She knows the feeling. Even so, she knows he can still be reached.

“So what about Caroline? Did you just up and leave her?”

He blanches visibly.

Satisfied that she’s found the right nerve, she presses the knife deeper. “How can you have left her, Tyler? She loves you more than anyone.”

“She’s better off in Mystic Falls,” he snaps, all of his reckless, familiar anger careening toward the surface. He stops himself, takes a breath, starts again. “Klaus wants me here.” Tyler sits down on the edge of her bed. “Elena, we’re part of something— _bigger_. You, me—we’re like the keys. Klaus _needs_ us—“

“So?"

He smiles at her and stands up to leave. At the door, he pauses to leave her with a parting word. “Give yourself some time to think about it. You’ll come around.”

 

 

 

 

  

For three days, she lies in bed, watching the shadows shift against the walls like ghosts.

Klaus takes an interest in her health. He comes in to check on her everyday, even sits with her for as much as twenty minutes at a time.

Elena tries to keep her eyes closed whenever Klaus visits her. If she didn’t, she might mistake his attention for something earnest.

She whiles away his visits by replaying in her mind the hush of Jenna’s last gasp, by focusing on the flames that consumed Isobel’s body that dance against her stubbornly shut eyelids.

With Klaus so close to her, it’s impossible not to think of a different set of flames. The fire was so hot the night she died… the night Klaus murdered her. How many other girls had died in his arms? And how many had lived to tell the tale.

“I’ve brought you orange juice.”

She slides an eye open.

Klaus holds the glass under her nose. His lips are spread wide in a smile that cuts deep dimples into his cheeks.

“I’m not thirsty.” She presses her lips together and turns her head away to illustrate her point.

“Come on, now, love, don’t be difficult. You need the juice to get your fluid volume back up to standard.”

“And whose fault is that?”

Mirth flickers in his eyes. Ease loosens his posture as he wraps an arm under her shoulders and lifts her up against the pillows into a sitting position.

Elena realizes, suddenly, that she’s never seen him truly relaxed. His decisiveness had all been a veneer to hide his uncertainty.

“Open that darling mouth, now, Elena,” he urges as he coaxes her lips to the glass. “There, now, that’s a good girl,” he whispers when she finally gives in.

Juice dribbles down her chin as he tips the glass for her to finish.

“I should have brought you a bib,” he murmurs as he draws his thumb across her chin and wipes the juice away.

“Or you could have listened to me when I said I didn’t want the damn juice.” She wishes she could push more venom into her words, but she just can’t find it anywhere inside of her. She feels like a puffed up kitten, all show and no threat. Where is the girl who stood up to Elijah and Katherine and even Klaus himself, just a few months ago? She’s looking for her, she really is, but it’s hard to find her after everything that happened.

Sometimes Elena feels like when she died, that part of her never came back.

Klaus laughs. “If I listened to you, I would have no fun.”

 _Fun._ What was fun to Klaus? Had it been fun when he had murdered her aunt? When he had put that timer on Stefan during Senior Prank Night, and compelled him to tear her throat out?

“If you listened to me, I wouldn’t have juice down my shirt,” she tells him lamely. Her voice sounds weak and petulant, even to her own ears.

Suddenly he is very close. “Would you like me to change it for you?” There’s a twinkle in his eye when he asks her this that wasn’t there a minute ago. His eyes are very blue.

Elena presses back against her pillows, as far away from him as she can get. “No thank you.” Her voice doesn’t waver at all. It doesn’t.

Klaus pulls back, and switches tack like he wasn’t being amazingly creepy at all a minute ago. “Suit yourself, love.” He moves toward the door and pauses with his hand on the knob. “Mind, it is a standing offer.”

Elena feels flustered the rest of the day.

 

 

 

 

 

Four times a day, Stefan brings her a plate of food and a fresh pitcher of water. Blood often speckles his shirt, but his hands are always clean when he fixes the bed-table over her hips. She supposes Klaus wants to guard against her acquiring any blood-born diseases.

She burns to speak to him. Anything to break the ice between them after he had bitten her would be a relief. He’s looking at her with a stranger’s eyes, though, and she cannot find the words that would beat back this stranger until Stefan, the _real_ Stefan, revealed himself.

“Why are you the one on lunch-duty?” she asks him finally, more because she cannot find any words adequate enough to broach how she feels and she would rather speak to him about these inanities than because she really wants to know.

“Because Tyler would fuck it up and Klaus thinks Rebekah might smother you with a pillow.”

“Is it just the five of us then?”

Stefan’s dark gaze settles on her like a shroud. “No, there are others,” he answers slowly, like he’s unsure if he should be speaking to her at all. “They aren’t sticking around though; Klaus is going to send them away…” He trails off, and doesn’t give any signs of continuing.

Others. Other vampires… or other _hybrids?_

“Why?”

“Why do you always have to _question_ , Elena? Isn’t it enough that you’re alive, being cared for?”

His words are like a slap in the face. Stefan has never used this tone on her before. Never been anything but tender and gentle. Even when he was out of his mind with bloodlust last year, he had done everything in his power to protect her from himself. Tears threaten to fall. It would be so easy to give in to them, to pity herself and drown here. Elena fights them back. She can be strong. She will be strong. For Stefan. She resolves herself to saving him. Somehow.

“We both know it’s not.” She hardly lets the words sink in before she forces the conversation back to getting the information that she needs if she’s ever going to figure a way out of this. Besides. If she starts down this road with Stefan, she doesn’t think she will ever get out again. She takes a sip from the glass of water Stefan pours for her and continues. “I get why I’m here, but why keep Tyler around?”

“Klaus thinks he’ll be good motivation for you to behave.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb, Elena.”

The admonishment stings, but she ignores it. “Fine.” She focuses on keeping her expression neutral, her tone even as she admits, “You would have been enough.”

He shrugs. “So I would be. But Klaus always has a back-up.”

 

 

 

 

 

The first time Klaus paid a visit to her, when she was still a little high from the sedatives the nurse had given her back in Mystic Falls, she awakened to his hand on her face, tenderly stroking her hair from her forehead.

The memory drifts back to her weeks later like an empty rowboat on the tide.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Thank you to everyone who has sent me kind messages over the past year (or more). You've kept me inspired and motivated. As some of you know, this has been on the backburner since October 2011, so I'm really excited to start posting it. I'm thinking it's going to run 15-20,000 words, but it could be a bit longer than that, depending. 
> 
> Please drop me a review and let me know what you think!


	2. Two

 

 

 

 

 

After a week of bed-rest, Klaus determines that Elena is fit to leave her room.

He tucks her hand into his arm and leads her down the dim hallways of this unfamiliar house. It’s a sprawling place, much bigger than she would have thought when she was pent-up inside her room.

She does her best to memorize her surroundings, but Klaus is much too distracting for her to focus. She can feel the heat radiating from his skin through his shirt, hotter than any human would be. Stefan had always been a little cooler than normal, but Damon had been hot to the touch like this. All that human blood, pumping and buzzing through long-dead veins.

She wants to tell Klaus she can walk by herself just fine, thank you, but knows it will do no good. Instead she asks, “Whose house is this?”

He looks at her like she’s dense. “Mine, of course.”

They pass by a window. It’s her first chance to look outside.

Elena peers through the frosted glass, but can’t make sense of anything she sees. Even the tall trees darkening the yard seem strange to her. They waver and dance when she looks at them too closely.

“Where are we?” she asks, only half aware that she has spoken at all.

“Somewhere I can guarantee you will never be found.”

She says something incoherent, then, about locator spells—

“I’ve had the property shored up, as it stands, against tracer spells and the like. Should your little witch try to find you, the spell will say you simply don’t exist. The evidence will indicate your death.” He says it all so casually, it’s as though he hasn’t just smashed the last of her hopes.

These are the last words she wants to hear, but they do her a single favor: they allow her to _let go_ of everyone she has left behind. The knowledge that if they can’t find her, they won’t come looking for her, and that they will all stay safe and _alive_ because of that, keeps her warm at night as she finishes recuperating from her first donation to Klaus’s “cause.” And then, during the day, when she entertains the idea of escape, of foiling Klaus’s plans because they _cannot_ be good or right—she thinks of Stefan, and of Tyler. How can she make her escape without putting their lives at risk? How can she save herself if it means she cannot save them?

She wonders if it would be so terrible to stay. To keep speaking to Stefan, reasoning with Tyler. Pouring her love into them, until she can get them all out of this. Because there is part of her that always has hope.

Even if it kills her.

 

 

 

 

 

Fresh clothes appear in the drawers of her dresser every few days. They’re simple items, reminiscent of what she used to wear to school. Soft sweaters, dark wash blue jeans, converse sneakers. Tank tops and sleep shorts and cream colored soft-cup bras. It all fits, and she wonders who it was who bought her these things. The same is true of the adjoining bathroom—the bubble bath for her claw-foot tub, the shampoo and conditioner for her long dark hair, the scarlet towels for her body—all of it is seen to, replenished without her even noticing when it happened.

And there is a flat iron.

 

 

 

 

 

Eventually she earns the privilege to wander around the house as she pleases. So long as Stefan escorts her, she’s even allowed to walk in the damp gardens outside.

The first time he takes her out, the morning rain has just cleared. She bounds away from him immediately, euphoric with the smell of the dewy grass and the sight of crystalline water droplets rolling off of the limp flowerheads.

Stefan snatches at her forearm a yard from the flowerbeds. His scowl, so reminiscent of the perpetual frown he wore in the weeks leading up to the sacrifice, tips her off.

“Relax, Stefan, I’m not going to hurt myself.” She swallows the sudden lump in her throat as it occurs to her that he might care for entirely different reasons now. “I just got excited after being inside for so long.”

His grip loosens, but he doesn’t pull away.

Elena places her hand over his. “Stefan?”

Something shifts in his face, in the weight of his open palm against the flesh of her arm. He opens his mouth to speak but stops just before he voices the thought. Stefan clenches his jaw, lips parted. The sunlight catches his bone-white back teeth. He touches his fingers to the base of her throat, where she knows he can feel her heart gallop.

“Stefan?” Rebekah’s clear voice whistles through the air.

Stefan darts from her like she will burn him. “Over here,” he calls, stuffing his hands into the back-pockets of his jeans.

“What are you doing with _her?_ ” Rebekah asks him as she saunters over, tone _more_ than indicating her opinion of Elena.

“Klaus wants me to babysit the bloodbank—says she needs the exercise to recover quickly.”

“ _Oh._ Well—“ Rebekah smiles as she speaks, all glistening incisors and cherry red lips. She draws Stefan’s face toward her and catches his lips against her own. Her lipstick smears on his lips, and for a moment his mouth looks as though it is tinged with blood.

When they pull apart, Rebekah keeps her arms twined around Stefan’s bicep.

Elena can’t bring herself to look at them as she grinds out, “I’d like to get back to our walk, Stefan.”

Rebekah pouts. “Stefan, you should really consider showing me half the consideration you show Klaus’s chit.”

 _Klaus’s chit_. It’s all so clear in Rebekah’s mind. Elena belongs to Klaus and Rebekah belongs with Stefan. The thought makes her want to scream.

Stefan hasn’t looked Elena’s way once since Rebekah joined them. He makes a point, now, to look right at her as he throws his arm over Rebekah’s shoulders and says, “No need to be jealous, Bex. Elena’s just an assignment to me.”

Her better judgment tells her that Stefan is just saying these things to placate Rebekah, that she should leave the subject alone. But the girl who still loves the man this monster used to be won’t let her.

Whatever it was that had passed between them when they were alone just a moment ago will not let her.

She raises her chin and meets him stare for stare. “Stefan, I know that’s not true. I know I mean more to you than—“

“Elena,” Stefan interrupts. “Just stop.”

 _I have to be strong_.

She stops, but she does not quit.

 

 

 

 

 

The rules are very few, but very strict.

She must not miss any meals, and she must take the vitamins Stefan sets out for her each night before bed. She is allowed to wander the house at will, though she has been warned against opening any closed doors or prying into any locked drawers. The garden is hers to enjoy, so long as she is under Stefan’s supervision. And of course, she cannot leave, and, eventually, she must give blood.

If she follows these rules, then her days are her own, and she has the freedom to fill them in any way that she desires.

The consequences for breaking these rules do not bear thinking upon.

 

 

 

 

 

Klaus stops visiting her.

It shouldn’t bother her, but it does.

 

 

 

 

 

Truth be told, the house becomes a bit tedious once the initial fear and anxiety starts to wear off.

The problem, she supposes, is that there’s really not enough to fill her time. If she had any intention to escape, she would spend her time plotting. Instead, she takes to wandering the house, meandering down long hallways and peering into unused rooms, the furniture within them covered in white sheets.

Sometimes she’ll look out the window and see dark shapes moving around the grounds, or hear a creaking floorboard and swear that there’s someone just around a corner.

At night, she can hear Rebekah’s laughter, floating through the house like a ghost.

Twice, she sees Tyler on her way in or out from her morning walks with Stefan. He’s always with someone—following Klaus, or talking to what she assumes must be the new hybrids. She can’t make out their voices, only a low buzz. They are always at a distance.

She wishes she could speak to him, but after that first day, she’s never had the chance.

“What does Klaus have Tyler doing?” she asks Stefan one morning in late September.

Stefan shrugs, like it really doesn’t matter to him.

It occurs to Elena that while Stefan is trusted, a member of the inner circle, “the family,” Tyler is just a lackey. The only difference between him and every other hybrid is that Elena is willing to give up her future for him. His worth is quite literally measured in her love for him.

She slips her hand into the crook of Stefan’s arm as they take a turn around a bend in the garden, to where the asters are blooming in pale pink bursts.

He starts to pull away from her touch.

“The grass is wet, Stefan. I don’t want to slip and fall,” she tells him reasonably.

He raises his eyebrows at her. His expressions says, _I know what you’re doing_. He allows her to keep touching him.

His skin is hot to the touch now, just like Klaus’s. She wonders briefly how many people he’s killed just since she arrived, but she pushes that thought out of her mind. She must focus if she’s going to accomplish her goals.

“It must be Homecoming back home, just about now,” she murmurs.

“Wishing I’d ask you to a dance?” He’s doing his best to sound snide, to make fun of her, but there’s something in his voice, something that she and maybe only she can read, that tells her _he’s the one_ who wishes they could dance.

She redirects their conversation. “Why are you protecting me, Stefan?”

“Klaus has given me very clear instructions.” He narrows his eyes at her. “You think it’s more than that though, don’t you?”

Elena looks away from him. “Your words, not mine.”

“I know what you’re trying to do, Elena,” he drawls, tone mocking and amused. “You’re trying to give me those pretty dark eyes of yours, all filled up with _sympathy_ and _love_ and _understanding_ , and you’ll try to convince me to come back to you. It’s too late for that.”

He still hasn’t pulled away from her touch.

“You’re forgetting something, Stefan. I know _you_. Better than anyone. And I won’t give up on you, not ever.”

He turns to face her. Stefan’s hands hover over her shoulders like he wants to crush them in his grip, shake her, but he can’t. He’s almost angry, underneath that cool mask he’s adopted since he flipped his switch back in the gym. The veneer is cracking. His emotions might be turned off, but there is still something underneath all of that driving him. The memory of their love, his most primal desire for her. She knows it’s there. Damon could not have loved Katherine for 145 years with his humanity switched off if this were not true.

“Why can’t you just let it go, Elena? You’ll be happier in the end.”

 _I won’t ever be happy without you_.

She almost tells him that.

She closes her eyes and leans into him. He is so tense against her that he trembles. That’s no matter. Like this, she can almost imagine that it’s last year, that they’re together at her lake house, just the two of them, alone and in love. She had kept a terrible secret from him then—the secret that she knew she was hurtling toward her own death. And she had revealed that to him, opened herself up completely until he had seen what kind of woman she really was.

If it really were last year, if they really were at that lake house still, she could have told him this secret now, this knowledge she has been sure of ever since he left.

 _I won’t ever be happy without you_. _I will love you until I die._

She can no longer trust him with her secrets. Klaus made sure of that.

“I’m tired, Stefan. Take me inside."

He has no choice but to obey her direct orders when they pertain to her physical health. He does not offer her his arm, but she takes hold of it anyway.

He escorts her all the way to her bedroom, and lingers at the doorway for a moment like there is something he wants to tell her.

“I’m going to take a nap now, Stefan. I’ll see you in a few hours.” She shuts the door before he can get out whatever he wants to say. Better to let him sit on it a little while longer, she thinks.

Elena’s been dancing to the tune of someone else’s song ever since she learned what it meant to be the Petrova doppelganger. Even if it’s only in this small way, it satisfies her to make someone else dance to _her_ tune.

 

 

 

 

 

She spends a lot of time thinking about agency. Does she have any? If it’s her decision to stay, does it still count, even if it’s also what Klaus wants?

When she thinks over her time here—going on nearly a month—she has to pluck out the decisions she makes for herself, one by one.

There are not many. Just enough to keep her going.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone wondering at this point, yes, yes, this is building toward K/E, but it’s kind of a slow burn where that is concerned, and it is basically multi-pairing and Elena-centric, so there is going to be a lot of Stelena, because early season 3 Elena is about as in love with Stefan as a person can be in love with another person—which is going to be really important to how the K/E develops. 
> 
> Reviews are very much appreciated.


	3. Three

 

 

 

 

 

Elena awakens in the middle of the night to someone looming over her. The shape is an inhumanly still black mass against the deep dark of her room. In the haze of her mind careening toward wakefulness, her thoughts latch onto old childhood nightmares of ghosts and demons, completely forgetting the terrible truth of vampiric reality. She draws breath to scream, but a hand over her mouth stops her.

As her eyes adjust to the moonlight filtering in through the window, Elena can just make out the glow of silvery blonde hair.

Rebekah leans forward, so her lips are against Elena’s ear. “I thought it was time for the two of us to have a chat, just the two of us girls.” She is so close Elena can feel her mouth curl into a smile against the shell of her ear. Her whole body is pressed against her. “I’m about to take my hand away from your mouth. If you scream, I really will take great pleasure in tearing your larynx out. So your choice, darling.”

When Klaus uses pet names on her, Elena can sense a certain level of vague, possessive affection, the kind of affability that’ll smile while it tears your throat out. It makes her skin crawl when he calls her _sweetheart_ or _love_ , but there’s nothing immediately threatening about it. His endearments are all insinuation.

Rebekah’s, on the other hand… Elena senses that _darling_ is the verbal equivalent of Rebekah holding a dagger at her throat. Worse, really. Rebekah’s teeth are literally scraping against the underside of her jaw.

Once upon a time, it was her mother who called her sweetheart when she kissed her goodnight, her father who called her darling when she looked like she needed cheering up. Those aren’t the immediate associations Elena has with those words anymore. Instead, it’s the chill up her spine Rebekah just gave her, the way her stomach twists up in sick nerves when Klaus gets too close. Just one more thing to add to the list of things Elena hates about them.

Nevertheless, when Rebekah takes her hand away from Elena’s mouth and pulls back, Elena does not scream. She pushes aside the instincts telling her to _run (animal instincts? Petrova instincts?)_ and gathers her courage like a shield. Very quietly she asks her, “Why not just compel me to stay quiet?”

She can practically hear Rebekah roll her eyes. “Because I wanted to have a conversation, not a monologue.”

Elena rises to her elbows and tries to scoot herself into a sitting position, but Rebekah effortlessly keeps her pinned with one hand on her shoulder. It puts Elena off, just a bit. She’s used to negotiating these dangerous situations eye to eye, with at least the _appearance_ of equality, if not equality in truth.

After all, she knows: appearance is everything.

Elena decides to play her best and most direct card, hoping to end this before it begins. “Klaus won’t like it that you were in here.”

“As it happens, I don’t particularly care what my brother would like.”

Elena isn’t stupid. She knows better than to tell Rebekah that she clearly _does_ care what Klaus would like. It’s probably why Rebekah is choosing this midnight tête-à-tête over draining her dry.

“I saw you in the gardens with Stefan,” Rebekah continues. She says it casually, her voice oozing boredom. She could be remarking on the weather. Rebekah runs a finger along Elena’s exposed collarbone. The gesture is absent, like someone drawing condensation circles on a damp coffee table. Like everything else Rebekah does, the gesture is supposed to communicate to Elena just how worthless, how small, how inconsequential she really is.

Elena sees through her. Perhaps the past year has been a bit of an ego-trip, but she’ll never take her own self-worth for granted again, no matter what anyone tries to tell her.

The fact that Rebekah is in here at all proves to her how seriously the vampire is taking her.

“So? I’m in the gardens with Stefan every day.” Elena does her best to sound as casual and as flippant as Rebekah.

“I know. It’s rather distasteful.” Rebekah studies her, head cocked to the side like a bird. “I do have to say, I understand why you’re doing it though.”

“Doing what? I’m not even allowed outside without Stefan with me, and not even Klaus expects me to go the rest of my life cooped up here.” _(She thinks about Katherine, stuck in the tomb, but the memory merges with an image of herself, stuck in this house without even the small escape of the yard—but her mind slithers away from that topic as soon as it touches it.)_

“You’re trying to win Stefan back, obviously. It’s all a bit sad, really, but I do understand. I’m stuck on him too.”

Elena shakes her head. “You don’t know Stefan. And you don’t know _me_. You don’t know _us_.”

Rebekah laughs at her. “You’re the one who doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

It might be reckless to challenge Rebekah, but Elena has always thrown herself headlong into trouble. And if Rebekah thinks Elena is going to be an easy victim, someone to walk all over, she’d better think again. “Please, enlighten me then. Because this Stefan? With his emotions turned off, following Klaus’s every order? That’s not the real Stefan. The real Stefan is kind, and thoughtful, and compassionate. How can you say you know him at all, when he’s not even himself right now?”

The moonlight catches on Rebekah’s teeth as she smiles. “Oh, but I _do_ know the real Stefan. We’re old flames, if you will.”

This is the first Elena’s heard of this.

“We fell in love back in the twenties, you know,” Rebekah continues. “The _“roaring twenties”_ I think they’re calling it now. And he _was_ kind.” She sighs, a bit wistfully, and lowers her voice, as though they’re really having the girl-talk Rebekah labeled this as when she first woke Elena up. “Kind, and thoughtful, and considerate, and everything a girl could want in a fella. The perfect boyfriend. I just adored him.”

“If you were such a pair of lovebirds, why hasn’t he ever mentioned you?”

“Oh, that’s Nick’s fault, naturally. He found out we were going to run away together, so he daggered me for ninety years and compelled Stefan to forget all about me.”

“Until now.” She says it without inflection, without emotion. Like it’s just a fact, one of many. Like it might not be the only fact that matters, in the end. She can feel tears forming in her eyes, but she won’t give Rebekah the satisfaction of letting them fall.

“Yes. Until now. So Elena. Before you get too carried away with your little schemes, do remember.” She traces one finger up and down Elena’s cheekbone, over the ridge of her brow, her eyelid, and down the slope of her nose. Her fingers rest against her lips as she speaks. “You were only borrowing him for a time. Now that time is up, and you must give him back. If you don’t relinquish him today, your heart will just get broken tomorrow. Are we quite clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Glad to hear it.” Rebekah rises and straightens up her clothes. “And Elena? Do try to get some rest. You’ll need it for your next donation.”

She clicks the door shut almost silently, shutting Elena alone in her room with her thoughts and the phantom sensation of Rebekah’s touch.

 

 

 

 

 

She has trouble sleeping after that.

Sometimes she wakes up and thinks she sees someone standing at the foot of her bed, a shadow deeper than the rest.

It could be Rebekah. But she doesn’t think it is.

 

 

 

 

 

The idea that Stefan actually has a history with Rebekah throws her. How can she rely on her history with him to pull him out of this, if the ones she is trying to save him from also have a history with him? How deep does his acquaintance with Klaus and Rebekah go?

She remembers, now, how she had overhead Klaus talking about Stefan’s ripper past in Chicago. He’d implied that they’d known each other very, very well.

She wants to ask Stefan about his past, but something stops her. A part of herself that does not want to know for sure, because it will make going forward that much harder.

 

 

 

 

 

It doesn’t matter.

Because—

_It’s you and me, Stefan._

_Always_.

She meant that.

 

 

 

 

 

She must go on, and so she does.

 

 

 

 

 

She does her best not to think of everyone she’s left behind. They’re far away and safe, and that has to be enough.

It’s better if she forgets about them because, unless there is some unforeseen change some future day, she will not see them again.

But she still dreams of them at night. Vague flashes of color, lightening and flame and feathers, Damon’s voice in her ear, the way Jeremy cried at their parents’ funeral, and didn’t at Aunt Jenna’s and Uncle John’s.

It’s to these disjointed strains of thoughts and images that she awakens not long after Rebekah’s nocturnal visit.

Once awake, the questions Rebekah brought up mingle with the guilt she feels for abandoning her family back in Mystic Falls.

She lies awake for what must be hours, watching the three-quarters moon through her window, before she decides _to hell with it_.

Elena throws back her comforter and steps barefoot onto the cold hardwood floor.

She almost expects someone to be standing guard outside her door, but no one’s there.

At first, she creeps down familiar paths—past the door to the gardens, through the hall with the long line of portraits and paintings, up long flights of stairs, the carpets plush and rich between her toes. At every turn she expects someone to stop her, to tell her she must go back to bed.

No one does.

It occurs to her that the house may be truly empty. Klaus and Rebekah and Stefan may all be out, the hybrids disposed of for the evening, and Elena left here alone, locked up, the lone treasure in this vault.

Her heart slams against her ribs. What if she really is alone? What would she do?

The delicious thought that she might in actuality be alone nearly _every_ night slithers through her.

Without the others here to _remind_ her of the true state of things, she can imagine herself not the treasure in the vault, but the queen of the castle.

Even if it’s not true, she allows herself to believe it for a little while.

She returns to bed just as the last stars are beginning to fade from the night sky.

This is the first of her nighttime wanderings, but not the last.

 

 

 

 

 

One night she sees a shaft of light spilling out from a doorway, down one of the third story hallways. As she draws nearer, she sees that the door is ajar, by just an inch. This door has always been closed.

Her instincts tell her someone is behind this door. She can feel it, somehow, in the charge of the air, in the heavy silence that drapes over everything like a shroud.

She pushes through the door anyway, and walks into the room like she has every right to be there. _She’s the queen of the castle._

Klaus is slumped forward in a low-backed leather armchair, staring fixedly at the fire burning low in the grate, a crystal tumbler of what looks like bourbon carelessly dangling between his fingertips. He looks like he’s brooding.

He speaks without looking at her. “I don’t recall saying you could come in here.”

“The door was open.” Elena glances around at the rest of the room—it’s a library with polished oak bookcases filled with beautiful leather-bound tomes, and a host of paintings—masterpieces, all—hanging between the bookcases. The fire crackling in the grate casts an orange glow over the room, and makes everything seem soft and warm and inviting. An open decanter of what her nose identifies as—yep—bourbon sits on a sideboard behind the sofa. Yes, Klaus is _definitely_ brooding, because this is definitely the place to go for such things.

Klaus’s mouth twitches like he wants to smile before his face smoothes again into that bored, condescending mask he and his sister have perfected. The interest that flares in his eyes isn’t her imagination, though.

Yes—whatever it was that had Klaus in a mood before she came in seems forgotten, pushed away for another time. It feels good, to finally have his attention after weeks of nothing.

He eyes her pajama shorts, the camisole that she is only too aware lacks a bra underneath. “And what is my doppelganger doing out of bed at this hour?”

 _My doppelganger_. He says it like he owns her.

He continues, “I hope your night hasn’t been disturbed in any way.” There’s an edge of menace there. Because of course—Klaus wants her rested and healthy, so she will be ready for a lifetime of bleeding for him. Elena wonders what he would do if he knew that Rebekah had come to see her.

She shrugs. “I’m living in a house full of vampires. I was bound to become nocturnal at some point.” Distracted by her surroundings and unable to help herself, Elena steps toward one of the bookshelves, and delicately traces her fingers along the spines. Some of the books are very old. Gold flakes speckle her fingertips when she pulls away, leaving titles a little less legible in her wake. “Is this your library?”

“One of them.”

 _One of them_. There are already more books in this room alone than Elena has ever seen in a private home. It’s the kind of library princes and dukes and earls have in period piece dramas—but then, she forgets. Klaus was once a lord too.

Her hands itch to pull out a book, any book.

And yet, this part of herself—the part that loves a novel more than anything, that dreamed of being a writer, and filled her journals with every thought, feeling, and fear she possessed—this part, she would like to keep from him. He already has so much of her.

Elena turns back to him and finds him watching her. With his face illuminated by flickering firelight, she’s taken forcibly back to the night of the sacrifice. He’d watched her like this then, with the singular intensity of a snake watching a vole.

She seats herself on the sofa across from him, separated by only a carved mahogany coffee table, and stares right back.

“Long time no see,” she tells him, when the staring contest starts to feel too intimate.

He raises his glass to his lips and takes a sip. He never takes his eyes off of her.

“Didn’t realize you’d noticed my absence,” he drawls.

“Because I have such an exciting life and wouldn’t possibly notice when one of the three people I ever speak to disappears.”

“You sound unhappy,” he notes. _He_ doesn’t, though. On the contrary, he sounds quite pleased. “Did you miss me?” His voice is low, rough, and—God, she hopes she’s wrong— _teasing_.

“No.”

“That sounds like a _yes_ , Elena.”

She purses her lips. “I don’t miss _you_. I miss…” She misses how easy Klaus made it to define herself against him. Her light to his dark, her good intentions to his bad ones. She misses having him as her rock to dash herself against. The way he made her heart pound and her blood sing—in anger, fear, and _excitement_. Without him, she feels adrift. Her days march on in one long monotonous dirge, and she is left to all of the feelings quietude and solitude expose—despair, melancholy, ennui, indifference. She misses being certain. She slumps under the weight of his examination, both unwilling and unable to tell him these truths.

“You’re looking unwell,” he says at length, when it is clear she does not intend to tell him what she really misses. “And you’ve lost weight. Have you been eating, taking yours vitamins? Exercising?”

“I’m your prisoner, not your pet,” she snaps.

“I fail to see the difference.”

“You can’t just feed me and water me and expect me to flourish.”

He puts his glass down on the table and leans back, hand braced against one of his thighs. “Is my care of you inadequate? Do you lack for anything?”

His questions make her furious. She wants to throttle him. “You can’t be serious.”

He spreads his hands wide in a gesture of placation. “I’m entirely serious, love. Humor me. What would make your time here more enjoyable?”

“I’m never going to _enjoy_ myself.”

“ _Elena_.”

“I already told you. I’m a person, not a pet. I can’t… I can’t just eat and sleep and walk around the garden everyday.”

A keen look of understanding starts to spread over Klaus’s face. “You’re bored.”

She huffs. “I’m not _bored_.” She sounds like a petulant teenager.

He actually laughs at her, delighted. “You are, though. For what’s a body without a lively mind?” He puts a foot up on the table and leans back. “I suppose you were about to finish high school, hm? It was—what was it? – _Senior Prank Night_ when I retrieved you?”

“Yes.”

“And what would you have learned this year in school? Calculus? History? Physics?” He doesn’t wait for a response before going on. “While I’m afraid that you won’t have a proper tutor, I do recall a time when an auto-didactic education was very highly favored. Shall we try that, Elena? What do you say? Shall I open up my library to you, free you to peruse whichever volumes you like best?”

Clearly, Klaus feels as though he’s just made her a magnanimous offer, and he’s expecting an enthusiastic response.

God, it’s a struggle to answer. Just the idea of being able to come in here and _read_ , to escape for just a few hours—it would be _heaven_ , and she feels _grateful_ for his offer. But there’s still enough stubborn steel in her that she remembers that it’s _his_ fault that she’s trapped here, his fault that if she is to read, it must be at his leisure, in his library, and not on her favorite couch in front of the fireplace at the Salvatore Boarding House.

Very carefully, she tells him, “Yes, I would like that.”

“Good. Then it’s settled.” He gives her one of those slow smiles, before standing to pour her a drink from the decanter behind her. His fingers brush hers as he hands her the drink. “A toast then—To your education.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review, and let me know your thoughts—and I’ll do my part to keep this momentum rolling.


	4. Four

 

 

 

 

 

The library becomes her spot. The door might always be closed, but Klaus has made it clear to her that the room is always open to her, at any time of day.

It’s a generous offer. But then, if this is only _one_ of his libraries, it can’t be too great a hardship to forfeit his sole ownership of this room. For all she knows, he has another collection somewhere else in the house.

Unlike her bedroom, where Stefan comes in four or five times a day, and where Rebekah has proved she is not afraid to look for her, this room is a refuge. Perhaps because the library is Klaus’s personal room, Elena is never disturbed while she is in there. In many ways, she feels safest there, physically… and emotionally.

And what a library it is. Many of the books on the shelves are bound in ornate leather, with real gold leafing spelling out the titles and authors. She reads original editions of Emily Dickinson, the pages as thin and fragile as the melancholic hope of the poems contained within them. She finds an original quarto edition of Shakespeare’s _Richard III_ , the binding gone rotten many centuries before, and a copy of William Blake’s poems and illustrations. There’s a handwritten note in the margins of the Blake book, detailing the poet-artist’s acid-based printmaking techniques. She wonders if the writing is Klaus’s.

For every book in English she finds six more in a foreign language.

She finds copies of _Don Quixote_ and _El Burlador de Sevilla_ that are half a millennium old. Voltaire and Rousseau’s works look particularly well-worn, as though they have been read and re-read. Eighteenth and nineteenth century editions of Greek and Latin classics sit interspliced among Russian novels as thick as her hand.

An oaken trunk, carved with sea-serpents and inlaid with abalone, contains nothing but scrolls, neatly rolled, some tied off with silk ribbon, some housed inside ornate sheaths. They are stacked right up to the brim, like gold doubloons spilling from a treasure chest. She reaches an arm in and pulls one from the bottom. When she unrolls it, the black kanji is impossible for her to decipher, but beautiful nonetheless. The next scroll is a painting of a court-scene featuring elegant women playing stringed instruments and weaving silk, the one after that filled with red and blue demons.

There are other trunks, filled with papers and silks and scrolls, all from different places, different times. Everywhere Klaus has travelled, he has taken something of that place back with him.

She cannot read a word of any these, can scarcely even guess at the Greek and Cyrillic alphabets, let alone the Kanji, but she feels as though she is learning something from them nonetheless. And maybe, one day—

She always cuts herself off here. It would be nice, to imagine herself learning Spanish or French or Greek or Russian or Japanese well enough to read it. But she learned, just last year, under the careful instruction of Katherine Pierce and Elijah and Klaus himself, that it would be the worst kind of foolish to imagine she has a future. No woman born with her face has ever had a future.

For a little while, last summer, she thought she might have broken free of the destiny fate spun out for her, but Klaus has shown her differently.

She must live in the eternal present.

 

 

 

 

 

She finds the task easier every day.

 

 

 

 

Klaus joins her sometimes.

Often, he’s perfectly acceptable company—he’ll come in, and instead of interrupting her, he’ll simply pull himself a book from the shelves, or settle in with a glass of liquor in front of the fireplace.

And yet, she cannot help but feel overly tense whenever he comes into the room. The flight or fight response whenever she’s around him is nearly impossible to suppress. It seems her body cannot forget that Klaus is the predator who caught her and killed her.

Just the _awareness_ of him in the room makes her whole body thrum. And when he speaks, she can feel the thud of her heart against her ribs, the pulse of blood in her veins, the sweat that trickles at her hairline and between her thighs. She’s an entire little ecosystem, rhythms and tides and quakes, and Klaus is the sun, the moon, the thing that sets it all in motion.

And Klaus seems to know it. He takes great pleasure in surprising her—she’ll be reading, quite alone, when she’ll feel a sudden gust of wind—the sure, true indication of a vampire entering the room—and hear Klaus’s voice, directly in her ear, as he reads over her shoulder. “Excellent, choice, Elena,” or “I didn’t think you’d care for this one. Are you enjoying it?” There’s always something in his tone, something that sends alarm bells ringing in her mind. He questions her about what she’s reading, but he’s never really interested in the books. No… just as it’s always been, he’s only ever interested in _her, her, her_.

Once, he catches her with _The Monk_. As soon as she feels him enter the room, she snaps the book shut and shoves it under the couch cushion, but it’s too late.

He gives her a knowing look as he sprawls out in the armchair across from her. “Have you gotten to the part where the tame linnet flies between Antonia’s breasts and 'nibbles them in wanton play'?”

She had, actually. Elena buries her head in her hands. She can feel the blood rushing to her cheeks. Had she ever been so mortified? “Jane Austen mentioned it in _Northanger Abbey_ ,” she tells him, her voice somewhat strangled. “I thought I’d check it out.”

Klaus waves her off, dismissing her excuse. “All the terribly bored house-wives read that one a few centuries ago, love. No need to be so embarrassed,” he murmurs, voice low and warm, clearly enjoying himself. He leans forward, so close that their knees are nearly touching. “That was the vogue back then—gothic romances, voyeurs harboring impure devotions, virgins kidnapped and locked up in castles.”

“Sounds familiar.” The words just slip out, resentful and huffy.

“Touché.” When she looks up, Klaus has moved—faster than her eye can track—and he’s standing right in front of her, leaning down and into her personal space, looking at her in that unnerving way he has.

The vervain is long gone from her system, and she worries that he will try to compel her—except he doesn’t.

_(Why would he bother? What does she, Elena, have left inside her mind that he would want? The only thing anyone wants her for anymore is her body.)_

“Elena,” he calls, pulling her from her thoughts. “Is that how you picture yourself? The damsel in distress, spied upon whenever you think you are alone, desired and coveted by all?” He’s mocking her, batting at her like a cat with a mouse.

Her face still feels overly hot from her blush, but she ignores it. “Of course not,” she mutters, crossing her arms protectively over her chest. _  
_

_(There’s a voice in her head that is saying she is_ exactly _how Klaus paints her. The voice sounds like Katherine.)_

He laughs at her. “No need for false modesty, sweetheart.” He touches a finger to her face, tracing the cheekbone. Her heart slams against her ribs, a painful beat like a drum. “Katerina ever was the vain little creature,” Klaus continues, making it clear that it’s not _Elena_ he sees when he looks at her. “So easily flattered, so quick to throw herself into the rôle of the maiden fair— Though, she was hardly a maiden when she came to me.” His lips curl into a something like a smile here, something that Elena recognizes as a baring of teeth. It’s a dangerous expression. If this is the way Klaus smiles at Katherine, Elena understands why she is so afraid of him. “Katerina… so quick to make everything about herself. I imagine it runs just the same with you.”

Elena shakes him off, and Klaus lets her. “What part of being fated for human sacrifice _wasn’t_ about Katherine… or about me, for that matter?”

“Now that’s a selfish outlook.”

Elena rolls her eyes at him. She wants to tell him, _You can’t be serious_. Except he is. He’s always at his most serious when he’s being his most farfetched.

“Enlighten me then. If the sacrifice wasn’t about Katherine, or me, then who was it about?”

“Me, of course.”

“Of course. It’s _my life_ you’ve hijacked for the past year, but that’s irrelevant.” Her life is so _little_ in his eyes, and it makes her furious, not least because there’s nothing she can do to prove to him otherwise. “You’re the only person I know more selfish and self-centered than Katherine.” She stands and tries to shove past him, but Klaus catches her by the arms. His grip is tight enough to bruise. “Let go of me, Klaus.”

“Do you judge me so easily, then, Elena?” His voice is calm, but there’s that edge to it that Elena is starting to know too well. It’s the same tone he used right before he decided to _set a clock to it_ on Senior Prank Night.

If Elena has learned anything in the past year, it’s to hold her head high and stand her ground. Especially if her adversary is an Original vampire.

“Only as easily as you judge me.” She makes sure to speak slowly and clearly.

Klaus stares at her, searching her eyes. The moment lengthens and distends, like honey dipped from the jar.

Finally, he lets her go.

He plucks _The Monk_ from between the couch cushions where she had hastily shoved it and places the book into her hands. “I believe you dropped this.”

Elena’s eyes flit down to the book that started this entire unfortunate conversation.

When she glances back up, Klaus is gone.

 

 

 

 

 

She stays curled up on the couch for some time after that, until the shadows on the wall lengthen and she knows that the afternoon sun is getting low.

Carefully, she rolls up her sleeves and examines the bruises blooming like blue flowers on her arms.

She thinks about the dark shadow she sometimes senses lingering at the foot of her bed when she wakes in the middle of the night. The weight of Rebekah’s jealousy and those odd moments when every nerve in her body lights like a spark to Stefan’s touch and she knows he feels it too.

_Is that how you picture yourself? The damsel in distress, spied upon whenever you think you are alone, desired and coveted by all?_

Klaus can deceive himself as much as he wants, but Elena knows the truth of the world.

 _Everyone_ wants a piece of her.

Even Klaus.

 

 

 

 

 

Elena stumbles into Tyler for the first time since that odd conversation they’d had when she first arrived nearly two months into her internment.

She’d had a tense morning with Stefan, who had barely said two words to her both during breakfast and during their midday walk together. Rebekah had been conspicuously sunning herself on an iron lawn chair, pulled up under the Japanese Maple in the corner of the garden. No doubt, Stefan had been even more aloof than usual because of her. He’d never been like that before he left. It’s just one more thing she adds to the list of reasons why she’s starting to fear that she’s lost him.

She’s so caught up in her own thoughts about it all that she’s already several steps into the library before she realizes there’s someone else already in the room.

“Tyler.” She breathes his name, as though saying it any louder will make him evaporate like smoke.

Tyler freezes when he sees her. His black eyes are almost comically wide, and his red mouth hangs open, like he’s forgotten how to speak. One of Klaus’s books is open in his hands.

Elena steps closer, and peers at the book he has open before him. It’s an oversize edition, filled with richly colored reproductions of Renaissance paintings.

A rush of tenderness overtakes her. Here the two of them are, so far from home in so many ways, so far from the people they were even a year ago, and Tyler still looks at art.

It’s one of the things about Tyler that hasn’t changed since they were little children. She remembers him in kindergarten, hoarding markers for his drawings. He’d grown more secretive about it as they grew older, but Jeremy had told her about the incident last year when he’d discovered Tyler’s artwork at the job fair.

_(And oh, just the thought of Jeremy sends an ache all through her body.)_

“Who’s the artist?” she asks him softly.

He looks down at the paintings, recreated in exquisite detail on the pages. “Titian. I saw the book on the shelf and I kinda pulled it without thinking. I couldn’t help myself, you know?”

Elena nods. She _does_ know. It’s such a relief, to be in the room with someone of whom she is so certain.

She feels the strength of her connection with Tyler. That connection—going back more than a decade— is unique amongst her relationships here. 

The idea opens up in her mind like a lily opening to the sun. Tyler could be her solace. A friend. If she can find a way to see Tyler again, then she might ease the loneliness that has been eating at her heart since she arrived. Perhaps, just maybe, that would be enough.

Carefully, he closes the book and puts it back on the shelf. He begins peering at the titles on the shelf, avoiding eye contact. “I’m supposed to find a book for Klaus. He sent me, I’m not just in here by myself.” He says this all very quickly, and it occurs to Elena that he’s nervous. Why, she cannot say. It could be because of where they are, in Klaus's private space, or it could be because of her presence. 

“Tyler.” She speaks firmly, so that he cannot ignore her. “I’m so _glad_ to see you.”

He fixes those sharp black eyes on her. He looks like he _wants_ to say something, but cannot find the words. At length, he tells her, “I’m looking for _Wolves of the American Southwest_.”

Elena wrinkles her nose. “Klaus wants that? Sounds like a national geographic title.”

Tyler shakes his head. “It’s not what you think. It’s an ethnographic study.”

“Of werewolves.”

“Yeah. It was written by one of the wolves in the area back in the thirties. Klaus wants to take a look at some of the last names mentioned, do some follow up with some of their descendants… Aaand forget I just said that.” He ruffles the hair on the back of his head. “He’s gonna be pissed if he finds out I mentioned it.” He turns back to browsing the book shelves, bouncing on his toes while he searches.

Whatever Klaus wants with _that_ , she knows it can’t be good. She brushes the thought off. It doesn’t really matter. It’s not like she can do anything about it.

She reaches out and touches his arm. He feels like a live wire under her hand, energy just building and building until that moment when it sparks and bursts. He stills when she touches him.

“Hey, your secrets are safe with me, Tyler. I won't say a word.”

He offers her a bit of a smile. “Thank you, Elena.”

Her answering smile is the first real smile she’s had since Klaus abruptly re-entered her life. “Let’s find your book, Tyler.”

They search together for a few minutes before Elena finds it on the shelf nearest the fireplace. Before she turns the book over to Tyler, she asks him, “When will I see you again?”

“I can’t say.”

“Because I have a lot of downtime on my hands. I can come find you when you’re free.”

“I’m not sure Klaus would like that. He’s made it clear the hybrids aren’t supposed to approach you.”

Elena shrugs. “I think you’re a special case. Besides, I think that’s more of a precaution against newly turned hybrids with poor self-control. You’re hardly going to snap and tear my throat out.”

“No, I won’t do that.”

“And really, Klaus doesn’t seem to care _how_ I spend my time, so I doubt he’ll care _who_ I spend it with. So long as I’m ready to give blood for his little army, nothing else matters, right?”

Tyler shifts his weight from foot to foot. He’s clearly uncomfortable with what she’s saying.

“Look, I’m not asking to spend every day together. I know Klaus has you doing… _something_. Just promise me I’ll see you again soon, alright?”

“I’ll try, Elena.”

“That’s all I’m asking for.” She can’t keep the smile from her face as she hands Tyler the book. “I’ll see you soon, Ty.”

After, her face aches from the unfamiliar stretch of muscles. She practices smiling in the mirror, watching the way the expression transforms her face.

 

 

 

 

The library, in general, is filled with the debris left over from centuries of travel, and is reflective of an individual with all the time in the world to learn about and be interested in everything.

That is not to say that Elena does not notice idiosyncrasies.

The first and most noticeable of these peculiarities is the vast collection of oversize folio books filled with images of master artworks, tissue paper carefully interlaid between the pages to keep the images pristine. Not just the odd book on the Renaissance masters, like the Titian book Tyler pulled, but books comprising every time and place and type of art she can imagine. The first time Elena pulls a book filled with black and white prints, it takes her a while to realize that these images are hand-etched reproductions, dating centuries back. After that, she notices more books of the like, mixed in with the newer full-color prints and, tucked into drawers and fastidiously stored in archival boxes, sheaves and sheaves of drawings.

Somewhat less obvious to the inobservant eye are the books pertaining to New Orleans—Elena finds an anthology of Tennessee Williams plays, Kate Chopin’s _The Awakening_ , John Kennedy Toole’s _A Confederacy of Dunces_ , several volumes of Yusef Komunyakaa’s poetry, and on and on. Something about this section seems different than the rest. They’re not housed together, instead wedged in between others at random, as though Klaus had been reading them only recently and never bothered to restore them to their proper places. While many of the books themselves are far more recent than others in this library, they’re more careworn, the spines bent, the pages grayish at the corners from years of fingers flipping through them, like they’ve been read and re-read, over and over and over again. She eyes these books for the longest, biting her lip and shifting from foot to foot.

Elena thinks that if she were to read one of these books, she might finally lay Klaus open. She’d see him clearly, then, instead of through the haze of fear and anger and bewilderment through which she normally experiences him.

The only thing that stops her is the thought that he might find her reading one of them.

If he were to do that, he might discover just how curious about him this room has made her.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s finaly here!! Hope you all enjoy. I always love to hear your thoughts, or just to chat about TVD/meta, so please review.


	5. Five

 

 

 

 

 

The morning after she runs into Tyler in the library, the sound of the tray table’s wheels rattling against the hardwood floor of her bedroom wakes her.

She opens one eye and peers at Stefan from under her lashes. Morning sunlight pours through her window. The room is very bright—it must be already mid-morning. 

Stefan is late. Usually, he’s here well before the sun has reached such a height in the sky. There is no use in wondering why. He won’t tell her, and she won’t ask. Not today, when things are just starting to look up, when she might look forward to seeing Tyler and having a friend again.

He uncovers the tray, revealing a steaming plate of scrambled eggs, grits, bacon and toast. Neither of them has ever mentioned it, but he still remembers exactly how she likes her grits, that she prefers strawberry jam to raspberry, that she takes cream but no sugar in her coffee. It’s a little thing, that he still cares enough to see to all of these little details, but all she has anymore are little things.

She stretches like a cat as Stefan pushes the tray into position over her lap, aware of his eyes on her as she eases the sleep from her limbs. She smiles when he does not look away. 

“You look… pleased this morning,” he notes, still hovering over her. “Should I be suspicious?”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Why bother? You know I’ve been painted into a corner. No where to run, no way out, and the lives of everyone I love are on the line if I so much as try.”  

He eyes her as he hands her her vitamins. “That’s when you’re at your most dangerous.”

She scoffs. He has to be pulling her leg. “What, are you afraid of me, Stefan?” 

“I know you too well not to be.” 

The admission stuns her.

“You’re exaggerating.”

“Am I?” 

“Yes! Every choice I’ve ever had has been pre-ordained. All I’ve done is react. That hardly makes me a threat.” She picks up the jar of strawberry jam Stefan has brought in for her toast and struggles to unscrew the lid as she answers him. 

Stefan gently takes the jar from her hands and opens it for her. “That might be true, Elena, but that’s not the whole truth.” He holds the open jar out for her. The sweetness of the preserved strawberries wafts into the air around them. “You’ve always been so clever about finding a loophole—or tearing everything apart to make one, if you have to.”

With a description like that, he could be talking about Katherine.

She laughs, incredulous and a little bitter. “Like when? When I let Klaus sacrifice me? Even though he killed Jenna to do it? Or are you talking about when he kidnapped me, and made sure everyone who would look for me would think I’m dead?” Just talking about any of this is winding her up, making her feel angry and impotent. She furiously slathers jam over her toast, using the task as an excuse not to look Stefan in the eyes. “I’m not planning anything, Stefan. I’m not… I’m not as strong as that.”

“Says the girl I saw mortally wound herself so she could dagger an Original.”

She clutches the butter knife in her hand. It’s true. If she closes her eyes and concentrates, she could imagine the instrument she holds is that deadly weapon instead. It had been cool and light in her grasp. Not at all how she’d imagined it would feel, to wield the power to slay giants in her fist. “You’re reinventing history,” she mumbles. “You make it sound more daring than it actually was.”

“Elijah thought you were bluffing. Most people would have been.”

“I didn’t have a choice. I had to do it to save you and Damon.”

“Exactly. You had no choice.” He leans back against her windowsill and crosses his arms. He speaks low and even, so reasonably, like they aren’t talking about a time she had risked everything for him. Like he hadn’t been the one to hold her in his arms and save her afterwards. “Like I said,” he continues. “That’s a dangerous position for anyone to put you in. It’s hard to say what you’ll do when you feel desperate.”

“Why bring all this up? If you’re so worried I’m plotting something, then wouldn’t it be better to watch me without letting me know you’re onto me? Or better yet, to tell Klaus?” She can’t quite keep the hope out of her voice when she asks him these questions— the hope that Stefan is bringing this up because he really still cares about her.

“Klaus told me to protect you. If you do have some scheme cooking, you’re going to wind up getting hurt, which kinda goes against my objective.”

“Oh.”

“So if you are planning something… I suggest you put it aside.”

“Because I’ll get hurt, and Klaus has ordered you to keep me safe.”

He points his finger like a gun and shoots at her. “Bingo.” 

“I see.”

They’re both silent while she picks at the remainder of her breakfast. A month ago, she would have lost her appetite after this conversation, but now she finds it hardly affects her at all.

“Are you going to finish that?” he asks after a while, pointing to her toast. She doesn’t protest as he takes what’s left and licks the stickiness off his fingers, one by one.

It wasn’t so long ago that he’d have been in bed with her, sharing sticky kisses and caresses. Coming up with code words and secret messages for each other.

 

 

 

 

Maybe she should be plotting something.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please review if you are enjoying this fic!


	6. Six

 

 

 

 

 

Elena does not have a calendar to mark her days. No cell phone, no newspapers or magazines, or television. Instead, she relies on the routines she’s fallen into with Stefan, the rhythms of the sun, the moon, and her body, to mark the passing time.

Orange juice and eggs and grits for breakfast, and very often Italian for dinner. Afternoons spent soaking up golden hour sunshine through the westward facing windows in the library, and midnight walks through the house, peering into rooms and chasing ghosts down the corridors. And each morning, a walk with Stefan, and a chance to pick at the confused knot of feelings and apprehensions that Rebekah has set her.

He usually takes her out early, when the damp chill is still settled over the lawn, and the sun is low. She feels a creeping in the earth, as plants unfurl and grow, the days shorten and the sun stays lower, and little chirruping bugs stalk through the grass, live, eat, shrivel up, and die.

Her body is adjusting to this rhythm too—she’s learning to tell time by the heat of the sun on her shoulder, and to measure all things out in the sameness of each day.

She shouldn’t be surprised that Klaus is the one to break this rhythm, even though he’s the one who set it for her in the first place.

After breakfast, Stefan leads her out for their walk. She threads her arm through his by habit now, and he no longer protests. Except while normally they go out through the back door unimpeded—every single day, in fact, once they had started this ritual—this time, Klaus is waiting for them.

“Ah, Stefan.” He stands with his hands clasped together. “I thought today I’d relieve you of your duties, take Elena out myself.” He offers her a dimpled smile and holds out his arm, like he just expects her to take it.

Stefan tries to acquiesce and move aside for Klaus, but Elena doesn’t let go of his arm.

“I want to go with Stefan.”

Both of Klaus’s eyebrows shoot up, in that expression of mild, amused surprise he has. “My, we’re stubborn… Stefan, do go find Rebekah. And that _is_ an order.”

“Elena,” Stefan murmurs, so quiet she can barely hear. “Elena, don’t push this. Go with Klaus.”

He tries to take her hand away, but she clutches him so tightly that he’ll only hurt her if he forces it. And he can’t hurt her, no, he can’t do a thing if it would cause her physical harm. She pushes his hand away from where he’s trying to disengage her and addresses herself to Klaus.

“Why can’t Stefan take me? I prefer his company.”

“Because Stefan has an obligation to my sister and because I’m desirous of your company this morning.” He nods at Stefan. “I won’t ask again.”

Stefan finally succeeds in prying her hand away and Klaus immediately takes it. He wraps his fingers around hers and reels her in.

She looks behind her at Stefan, but he’s already backing away.

“Are you ready, my dear?”

The words send a shiver down her spine.

She doesn’t respond as he opens the door and leads her out. He tucks her hand into the crook of his arm and rests his free hand over her fingers, so she is doubly locked-down by him.

“Beautiful fall weather,” he remarks. “Though, perhaps a bit sunny for you. You’re looking a bit sallow under that olive complexion.” He leans into her, so his mouth is near the juncture of her neck and shoulder, and inhales. Her whole body tenses up with his mouth at her neck. “You smell healthy, at least...” He is so close she can feel his mouth quirk against her skin. “A bit revved up, though.” He presses his lips to her neck, just over her scar, and speaks against her throat. “Mmm, Elena? I can feel your pulse fluttering like a hummingbird in your throat, and I can smell all of that adrenaline, pumping away… Why so jittery?”

“You’re very close.”

“Ah, but we’ve danced this number before, now, haven’t we, sweetheart? By the light of the moon?"

“That’s why I’m uncomfortable.”

“No need to be. Haven’t I already told you? I won’t harm a hair on your lovely head.”

“How can I believe you? _You killed me_.”

He pulls away, finally. His fingers brush her hair over her shoulder, so the scar is obscured again. “If you’ll recall, that was really more by necessity. I didn’t have anything against you.”

“Except my face.”

“Well, yes, there was that. But some things can’t be helped.”

Klaus brings her over to the Japanese Maple, whose leaves are turning a brilliant scarlet. From this angle, she can see that Stefan and Rebekah have come outside. They’re having some sort of argument, but their voices do not carry.

“But is your face such a terrible burden to bear?” he asks, continuing the thread of their conversation.

“You’re kidding."

“No, not at all.” Klaus guides her over to the iron lawn chair, and draws her down to sit with him. “Perhaps last spring it may have seemed like more of a curse than a blessing—as you so aptly pointed out, a death-sentence _would_ be a bit of a bother, though it _was_ in service to something much greater than yourself, which _should_ have been a comfort—but what about now? Surely you must see that being my doppelganger has its benefits.”

“What do you mean, ‘what about now’? What benefits?” she asks him as she stares across the lawn at the only man she’s ever loved, embroiled in a lover’s spat with another woman. “My face is still the reason I’m imprisoned here.” _It’s still the reason I’ve lost Stefan. Lost everything._

“You call it imprisonment, I call it position.”

She opens her mouth to respond, but nothing comes. It’s very hard to think, let alone follow the maze of Klaus’s mind, when her eyes keep getting dragged back to the couple across the lawn. “I don’t understand…”

Rebekah has just shoved Stefan into the side of the house. Stefan points at himself, at Rebekah, back and forth and back and forth. 

Klaus flips her hand over and draws little designs over her palm. The skin is very sensitive there, and she shudders a little bit when his nail scratches the inside of her wrist. “Come now, Elena. Surely the preoccupations of young girls haven’t changed so much?”

She swallows thickly, her eyes darting between Klaus right in front of her, and Stefan in the distance. It's an effort, to drag her attention back to Klaus. “Apparently, they have, so you’re going to have to clue me in on what you mean.”

“I’m talking about _position_ , dear heart, about social-standing… about _matches_.” Klaus continues tracing the bluish veins on the inside of her arm. With each passing swipe of his finger, she’s getting pulled further into him. She thinks she understands how the fly feels, caught in the spider’s silk web. She’s horrified to be here, but the trap feels wonderful all the same. “You see, not so very long ago, every woman’s prime objective was to launch herself into the company of the most eligible men—eligible usually defined as powerful, in one way or another—and to cast her nets to capture the very best one possible.” He takes hold of her chin with his free hand and turns her face toward him. His fingers caress her jaw, so lightly the pressure is just a faint tickle in the breeze. “With your face comes access—to the very best, the very apex, the very most powerful of them all—to _me_. Women used to literally kill for that kind of opportunity.”

He talks and talks and talks, and she gets lost, listening to what he’s saying. This isn’t the script she thought they were following, but now that she’s here, she can see all those little warning signs that she just _ignored_ like a fool. She feels a sick upside down feeling, like she might throw up.

“You’re not asking me to marry you.” She says it definitively, hoping that if she slams the door shut on this bizarre topic now, it’ll never reappear.

He laughs, the sound clear and bright. “No, of course not.”  He leans in very close, so close she can see each individual dark blond eyelash, so close she can nearly taste his mouth, and the only place for her to look is into his blue eyes. “But do you remember,” he murmurs, voice low and velvety, “that night you burst into my library uninvited? You told me that you weren’t my pet. But really, you are— and is that such a bad thing? To belong to me, my doppelganger…” His fingers stroke her face as he speaks. He draws her in with his touch and his voice, and she’s too muddled by it all to pull away.

It takes nothing for him to close the distance between them. His kiss is like his bite—possessive and all-consuming. It terrifies her.

She rears back and slaps him. 

For his part, Klaus actually looks surprised by her reaction. He reaches up and touches the spot on his face where she struck him. Her hand and wrist are already throbbing—no doubt, she did more damage to herself than to him.

“I don’t _belong_ to you, Klaus,” she snaps. “I’m not your _pet_.”

He narrows his eyes at her. “All evidence to the contrary, sweetheart.”

She surges to her feet, and he doesn’t stop her. “You don’t get it, and you never will. You might have control of my body, but you can’t control _me_. You can’t control what I think, or what I feel. In all the ways that matter, y _ou can’t even touch me._ ”

She stomps away from him without waiting for an answer. That same instinct that lets her know when a predator is watching her also warns her that his eyes are trained unwaveringly on her back as she stalks off across the lawn. Vaguely, she notices Stefan and Rebekah have stopped fighting, and are both looking at her in that eerie frozen way peculiar to vampires.

She goes back to her room and slams the door.

She can still feel Klaus’s kiss.

She falls asleep and dreams of fire.

 

   
 

 

 

Elena doesn’t lay eyes on Klaus again for six days after that. Stefan says he’s around, but she never actually sees him.

She hadn’t realized how used to him she was until he was gone. She expects him to turn up in the library at every moment, and is so distracted, glancing up constantly at the door, like looking will make him appear, that she can hardly read.

It’s different from the last time, when he stopped visiting. There had been nothing behind that, simply a lack of regard. This time, she feels a definitive tension in the air.

He’s very angry with her. She’s sure of it. She cannot imagine how a man with an ego like his can reconcile being so summarily rejected.

 

 

 

 

She finds a copy of Jane Eyre with Rebekah’s name scribbled on the frontispiece. She traces the script letters with her fingertips.

Assuming no one had thrown it away, she has a copy of the same book sitting on the bookshelf in her bedroom back home in Mystic Falls. It had been on the syllabus for her AP English class.

She gets to the part where Jane Eyre confronts Mr. Rochester in his garden, and feels a kind of fierce kinship with Jane’s sentiments.

 _“Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! — I have as much soul as you, — and full as much heart!_ ”

But when she reads the next part, she shuts the book, and finds she has no interest in going on with it.

   
 

 

 

 

She wishes he would show up just so they can get past the inevitable argument, and go back to the cease-fire they’d had before.

 

   
 

 

 

A thump followed by a scream awakens her on the sixth night.

She lies completely still under her blankets, frozen by fear and indecision.

Someone thunders up the stairs at the end of the hallway, then barrels past her door.

Silence follows.

She’s been in too many situations like this before to let uncertainty of whatever is going on outside to stop her from investigating. She creeps along the hall, pausing at each door. She doesn’t know what she’s looking for, but she doesn’t want to miss it when she finds it.

From the doorway of the last bedroom on her hall, she can hear someone breathing. Whoever it is is trying very hard too stay silent, but is whimpering between breaths too much to succeed.

She finds a stranger—a girl, maybe a little older than herself, with wild dark hair and mascara streaks running down her face—huddled up in a closet, her hands clamped over her mouth. Her eyes roll wildly in their sockets, like a spooked horse, when she spots Elena. The girl tries to scramble away when Elena squats down level with her, but her back is already to a wall. 

Elena could never turn her back on someone in need.

“I’m not going to harm you,” Elena whispers. There’s something dark staining the girl’s shirt. “Are you hurt?”

The girl nods, and touches her fingers to her ribs.

“Can you tell me what happened?"

Fresh tears ooze down the girl’s face. “I was at a party—My friend Sasha and I left with a guy, and he brought us here. He was so _funny_ and nice, and I thought it was fine, because Sasha seemed to know him—“ She grabs Elena’s arm. There’s a look on her face that Elena recognizes, the stunned look that always follows the discovery that nightmares are real. “ _But he wasn’t a guy._ He was… he was…” She trails off, an hysteric note in her voice.

“He was a monster,” Elena supplies.

“ _Yes!_ ”

Elena takes the girl’s hand and pulls her to stand. She speaks to her very gently. “My name’s Elena. What’s yours?”

“Zoe.”

“Listen to me, Zoe. I’m going to get you out of here. You need to be quiet, and stay close behind me. Got it?”

“What about Sasha?”

“We’ll look for her too, but the priority has to be getting you out.”

Zoe pauses. “You’re not… _like him_ , are you?”

Elena shakes her head. “I’m just like you. Normal.” It’s a lie, but it’s a comforting one.

She’s not sure who it was who brought Zoe here—a hybrid, probably, one of the new ones who prefers live prey to blood bags. Some of them look like college boys. It would be easy for one of them to slip into a party and bring one of the girls back for a meal. If that’s the case, then her presence might provide Zoe with enough protection to get her out the door.

There’s a back door off the kitchen, down on the first floor. If Elena can get Zoe through that door, she might be able to get her to the edge of the property.

Elena leads Zoe back out into the hall, down the stairs. They are very, very quiet. The moon is their only light.

There are no windows in the staircase, so they must navigate by touch as they make their way down in total darkness. At the bottom of the staircase, Elena trips on something large and lukewarm. She throws her hands out to catch her fall, and her fingers snag in strands of something long and smooth. Everything around her is wet.

“Elena?” Zoe calls. “Are you okay?”

Elena pulls her hand out of the thicket of human hair. Her knees are dripping in blood, but none of it is her own. She’s found Sasha.

“Zoe, take my hand. You need to jump past the final step, okay?”

“Why? Is there something…?”

“It’s not important right now. Jump.”

Zoe follows her directions and lands just past her dead friend’s body. They make it to the back door, then out, onto the lawn.

The moon is bright tonight, and shines silver over the wet grass.

It all happens very fast.

She sees Rebekah, mouth ringed in red and gore dripping down between her breasts, at the same time as she feels Zoe ripped from her grip. She turns.

Klaus has finally made an appearance.

He stands behind Zoe, holding her loosely by the throat. He doesn’t look like other vampires when the change comes upon his face. Elena’s never seen anything like it. His eyes are an unnatural black that reflect no light, save for the yellow wolf irises burning through the dark. And his fangs are different too, larger and double-rowed, and twice as deadly. She stands transfixed in horror, looking at the thing her blood has made.

She closes her eyes. She had known, of course, that this was a possibility. When she opens them, Klaus is leering at her.

“Lovely of you to join us, Elena.”

She stumbles forward. “Let her go.”

Klaus turns to his sister. “What do you think, Bex? Should we let our guest leave the party?”

Rebekah rolls her eyes. “Oh, don’t be a spoil sport, Elena, Nick and I are not nearly finished. Our new friend can’t possibly leave yet.” She slinks over to Zoe, and, taking Zoe’s hand, plucks the rhinestone ring off the girl’s finger and slides it onto her own. Rebekah holds her hand up to the light to examine the effect. “What do you think, Zoe, does this suit me?”

The girl nods mutely.

“Please,” Elena calls, addressing herself to them both. “Please, just let her go.” Tears prick at her eyes. She doesn’t bother to wipe them away.

Zoe stares at her, unblinking, but her whole body shivers and quakes under Klaus’s grasp. 

Amazingly, Klaus lets her go.

Zoe bolts across the field.

Klaus and Elena stare at each other, only two feet apart. She thinks he might grab her next.

Then the moon disappears behind a cloud. The wind shifts. Klaus and Rebekah share a look, and then, as if some silent signal had been sent, they disappear, streaking across the field like lightening. 

The girl runs as fast as her legs can carry her. It’s not fast enough.

Elena is at some distance, so she cannot be sure who did it in the end, but the sound of Zoe’s neck snapping reverberates through the empty night.

They come back a few minutes later, somewhat bloodier than when they disappeared. Rebekah is looking at her new ring. They each wear smiles on their faces, like they’ve just shared a joke.

In the distance, Zoe’s body has been abandoned on the ground. Perhaps a hybrid will be tasked with disposing of it tomorrow, or perhaps wolves will scavenge it.

“Come inside, now, sweetheart, or you’ll catch cold.” Klaus lays a hand on her shoulder and steers her toward the house. His flesh is feverishly hot.

“You’re so cruel,” she mumbles.

He hears her perfectly well. “It’s in my nature,” he tells her. “And in yours.”

When she looks in the mirror upon returning to her room, she notices that Klaus has left a bloody handprint on her shoulder.

 

 

 

 

 

The next morning, she pushes food around on her plate while Stefan watches her eat.

“Say I did have something planned,” she begins quietly. “What would happen?”

Stefan turns to face the window. He looks so much older than seventeen. He looks like he’s not quite certain how best to phrase things. “Klaus is unpredictable at the best of times,” he tells her slowly. “He has an explosive temper, and poor control over himself once it’s engaged. You’ve seen how his rage rules him sometimes.” He turns back to her, and kneels beside her bedside, so he is looking up into her face. “If you were to plot against him, that temper would be unleashed on you, and on everyone you love. Are you prepared for that?”

“No.”

“Then leave it, Elena.” He stands and returns to looking out the window.

A few more minutes pass, with only the sound of her silverware scraping against her plate to break it.

“Do you think it’s the wolf in him, that makes him so volatile?” she asks at length.

“The wolf, or the man.”  
 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the amazing reviews you all have been leaving—you all rock.
> 
> To celebrate getting over 30 reviews on this + the amazingness that is spring break, I’ll be taking tvd prompts on my tumblr through March 31st. Anyone who is interested can drop me a prompt in my tumblr inbox, livlepretre.tumblr.com , and I will write you a ficlet, to be published here on ffn and on tumblr. Any prompt, any pairing, so long as it’s tvd.


	7. Seven

 

 

 

 

 

Elena sits huddled up in a window seat in an unused music room on the third floor, knees tucked under her chin. It’s been about sixteen hours since Zoe’s death. The window overlooks the garden below, and the long line of trees edging the perimeter of the property. The sun has long since begun to sink below the treetops, and shadows lengthen in the room. She doesn’t bother to turn on a light. Right here, she could almost be sitting at her bedroom window again. How many nights last year had she sat in that very spot, thinking of Klaus?

Of course, she had never in her wildest imaginings thought of him like _this_.

Klaus’s kiss comes back to her with so much more potency than it ever had in the week preceding Zoe’s death. Perhaps it’s a kind of guilty self-torture, her penance for being unable to save the girl in the end, but Elena cannot help but recall in perfect detail the way Klaus’s lips slid against her own, warm and soft, and the pressure of his tongue stroking against hers, the way his hands held her in place so that he could claim her. The taste of him, like something familiar, bourbon and regret. It had been over so quickly, and yet she had catalogued it all.

It had been easy to ignore those sensations when the kiss had actually occurred last week. Sure, she had _thought_ about it a lot since it had happened, but only ever in terms of Klaus’s motivations—he had kissed her because she wasn’t really a person to him, he had kissed her because of whom she looked like, he had kissed her because he thought it would be easy to use her, he had kissed her because he enjoyed toying with her and had nothing better to do. The closest she had come to even attaching any emotion to the… _interaction_ … had been in consideration of Klaus’s temper. Of his ego, crushed, or of his boredom, undiverted. That long absence had seemed so rife with possibilities, ways he might lash out at her, and yet somehow never had she considered what Klaus would actually do when met with an obstacle to his desires.

She feels like a fucking idiot for not seeing this coming, for not _knowing_ exactly how he would respond to her rejection. She’d _seen_ how cavalier he was about life and death on Senior Prank Night. _If she drops her foot, Chad, I want you to beat her to death._ He was a monster, not because of _what_ he was but because of _who_ he was.

And yet, she had not rejected him because of that. She _wishes_ she’d had the larger, nobler reasons ( _righteousness, honor, morality, fidelity_ ) in mind when she slapped him. She _knows_ that it was the right thing to do, for everyone he had hurt, for Jenna and Stefan and Tyler and Isobel and John—but she had done it solely for herself, without anyone else, or anything else, ever even entering her mind. Because he’d hurt her pride _(her vanity)_ when he treated her like an object or a lower-life form, without feelings or heart or inherent purpose. Ultimately, the reasoning behind her refusal had marked her out as every bit as selfish as she had accused him of being.

It’s because of those reasons that she cannot summon the necessary disgust with Klaus when she replays their kiss. It’s only herself she feels disgust toward—a girl who’d already kissed so many mouths that should have been stained red forever by the death on those lips, a girl who too easily moved past unspeakable horror after horror and didn’t even have nightmares about it anymore. Honestly, what difference does it make if she kisses Klaus, at this point?

Her mother would be so ashamed of her.

Her mother wouldn’t even recognize her.

Just like she’d thought last night, Zoe’s body had already been moved by the time she woke up. It doesn’t matter, really. In her mind’s eye, she can still see the silhouette of that broken girl, dark under the moonlight.

Before last night, it had been almost easy to narrow the scope of her problems to herself, to doing whatever was expected of her to keep Tyler safe, to keep _Stefan_ safe, to try to help him in whatever way she could.

How _selfish_ that all seems now. How selfish that she intends to go on with it anyway.

Stefan cracks the door open, spots her, and settles back against the door jam, arms crossed over his chest. “Finished sulking?” he asks her.

“I’m not sulking.”

He shrugs. “Brooding, then.”

“Fine, you’re the expert, Stefan. What do you care if I am?”

“I only care when you miss meals to do it.”

She grinds her teeth but doesn’t move from her spot on the windowsill. “I wasn’t hungry for lunch today.”

She can feel Stefan’s eyes on her, studying her, but he doesn’t say anything at first, just meanders into the room only to pause at the upright piano shoved into the corner, looking like it’s been a few decades since anyone has touched it. He taps one of the high keys twice. The note comes out flat and weak.

Stefan flips open the lid on the piano and peers inside. “So what’s up with the pity party anyway?”

“Do you know about last night?”

“The sorority girls?” He reaches his arm into the piano, up to the elbow. He’s got a fixed look of concentration on his face, like he’s half-here, half-wherever-his-work-is. It reminds her of afternoons at the Boarding House, Stefan on his back under his car while she sat and watched him work, talking about school, about Caroline and Bonnie and whatever was going on between them, late afternoon sun streaming in and making everything golden and warm and safe and normal.

“Sasha and Zoe.”

“Alright then, Sasha and Zoe. What about them?”

“I was with them—Klaus and Rebekah—when they killed Zoe. They let her go, made her think she had a chance to escape, before they killed her. They were _toying_ with her.”

Whatever Stefan had thought to do under the hood of the piano, he gives up and comes over to sit by her. Almost like a confidante. “Sounds more like they were toying with you. Or Klaus was, anyway. Rebekah would rather get rid of you.” He glances out the window at the setting sun, then, shifting beats, stands and holds his hand out to her. “C’mon, it’s dinner time.”

Trust Stefan to always bring the conversation back to his orders from Klaus. She is so _sick_ of his orders. “I’m not hungry.”

“Look, Elena, I let you sulk in here all day, but I can’t let you miss another meal.”

She turns away from him.

“What?” Stefan asks, frustration keen in his voice. “You're not eating now? Klaus decides to pick on you so you just curl up and die?”

“I don’t think what he did counts as _picking on me_ , Stefan.”

“You’re being dramatic.” She can _hear_ his eyes roll.

“What about my life _isn’t_ fucking dramatic, Stefan? _What?_ Please, inform me.” By the end, she is shouting at him.

“Are you done?”

She purses her lips. _Say she did have something planned_. She wouldn’t tell him. “For now.” She pushes past him and starts the walk back to her bedroom.

Stefan follows behind her, a phantom at her shoulder, silent as only the truly deadly can be.

Back in her room, the tray is already set up, round silver lid keeping everything hot for her. Stefan plucks the lid off and the moist heat from the ossobuco underneath wafts up into her face. The air is sharp with spices. Her stomach twists in sudden hunger.

Elena’s cutting the meat into little, savory pieces when Stefan speaks up. “I’m the one who taught Klaus to play with his food.”

She pauses, fork poised at her lips. She puts the fork down. “He’s like, eight-hundred years older than you. I doubt you’ve made that great of an impression in five months.”

Stefan stuffs his hands in his pockets and hunches over her, the way he sometimes approached Damon or Katherine when he was trying to be casual and threatening all at once. “I didn’t teach him this summer, Elena—I’m talking about before.”

“You mean in the twenties.” Carefully, she takes a bite. The veal nearly melts in her mouth.

“Yeah, the twenties. Middle of a blood binge, I met Klaus and Bex in Chicago. You see, before Klaus met me, he was more of a _kill everyone you ever cared about_ kind of guy.” Stefan’s mouth twists. “What he liked so much about me was that I taught him how to have fun with it.” He leans back against the wall, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of her. “One night, we had a beautiful woman sit with us, so we could enjoy her over sidecars. Well, eventually her husband came looking for her, and he wasn’t very happy with the state he found her in. He got _real angry_ , threatened to call Chicago PD. So I thought, guy hardly knows us, he oughta at least have a drink with us before he makes a rash decision like that.”

“Haha, very funny.” Her knife scrapes against the plate.

“Klaus thought so.”

“So what, you drained him right there?”

“Hardly.”

Her stomach turns. It’s obvious where this story is headed. She keeps eating.

“I invited the guy to sit down with us, and I had his wife sit down next to me, so I could use my switchblade to slit her wrist and fill a champagne glass with her blood. Then I told her husband to drink up.”

_I invited him to the party, love, he’s the one dancing on the table._

“Why are you telling me this?”

“You live in a house of _vampires_ , Elena. I thought it was time you took notice.”

She scoffs. “Believe me, I notice.”

“No, I don’t think you do, else last night wouldn’t have struck you so hard.”

“I just… forgot, somehow, what he was like.”

“The same way you “forget” what I’m like.” He air-quotes the word _forget_ , and just like that she _does_ forget, because she’s wondering why he’s never come out of the nineties, and the fondness she feels for him seeps through her like sap in a tree. And God is it irritating to realize that Stefan is _right_. She _does_ have a problem, and it starts and ends with her inability to keep her moral compass fixed and steady when she’s around vampires. If only she were ever around anyone _other_ than vampires, she might get her head straight.

She pushes her dinner away, only half consumed. “Damon makes this better.”

There’s a flicker in his eyes—annoyance, or— _maybe_ — jealousy. “Anything else Damon does better than me?”

“Lots of things. We spent all summer together.”

“Oh, I’m sure. Cozied up together in Mystic Falls?”

They stare at each other. The air thickens with tension, with the certainty that someone, at some point, is going to break.

She wishes— _oh! she wishes!_ —that she could cut through the barriers that’ve flown up between them since he left last May.

 _It’s you and me, Stefan_.

And just like that, she takes the leap—and Stefan catches her. She throws herself into his arms, and he doesn’t push her away, no, he wraps his arms around her and draws her close to him, so her head is tucked under his chin and she can hear his heart beating, the slow, eternal rhythm she will always rely upon.

“I almost thought I’d escaped him, too,” she whispers. There’s no need for her to say who she means. They’re in this together, whether or nor Stefan will ever admit it aloud. “Last summer… I was miserable without you. But I was free, too.”

Stefan’s fingers catch at the bottom of her hair. Quietly, he tells her, “I pretended you were dead last summer. You _were_ dead last summer. I wasn’t ever going to see you again.”

Tears burn in her eyes. When she looks up at Stefan, she can’t see him clearly at all. His mouth is very close. She tilts her head, and Stefan is staring at her, and her mouth, and leaning toward her. Her pulse thuds in her ears.

He pulls away from her, so they are not touching at all. “Remember what I told you, Elena. We’re monsters, all of us. It’ll go better for you if you keep that in mind.” He’s gone before she can formulate a response.

She realizes her mouth is hanging open. Still waiting to be kissed.

It would have been nice, for Stefan to kiss her, to wipe out the memory of Klaus’s kiss with something she could cherish instead.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who’s reviewed/kept by during the hiatus, I really appreciate it, and loved hearing your thoughts. I’m well into the next few chapters for this, and am so excited for where FE is going! 
> 
> And if you haven’t seen, I’ve also started a sequel to my other Klena multi-chapter, After the Fire, But Before the Flood, called Symbiosis. Check it out if you haven’t already! 
> 
> Drop me a review here or hit me up on tumblr at livlepretre if you want to chat tvd/have questions! xx


	8. Eight

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next morning, Stefan pretends like nothing happened at all. 

That’s alright. Elena knows that _something_ did happen. Almost happened. 

_Almost_.

Her life is made up entirely of _almosts_ these days. Almost escaped. Almost was free. Almost lived a life that was her own. Almost. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Klaus is around much more after Zoe. It seems that after a week away, he has determined to stay close. Not the way he was before—not in the library, sharing a companionable silence, or in the garden again, but at the edges of things—coming in and out of the front door, passing her in the hall. He is everywhere. 

Never where she can stop to speak to him. No, he keeps himself out of reach, even while he seems to deliberately place himself where she can see him. Murmuring into Rebekah’s ear, her manicured nails against his neck like talons as she tips her face to listen. Storming in through the front doors, a pack of hybrids trailing behind him—the lord entering his castle with his faithful hounds trailing at his heels. 

Once, when Stefan is leading her back to her room after a walk, she sees him at the foot of the stairs, blood in his hair and streaking down his chin. He offers her a slow and easy smirk. He shouldn’t _get_ to smile, to laugh, to whisper secrets into his sister’s ear, not after what he’s done to her, to the achingly long list of people he’s harmed. The fury rises in her so deeply at the sight that she cannot help herself, she arcs toward him, fully intending to slap that stupid grin off of his face. Stefan catches her by the elbow the moment she moves, though, and his grip is punishing. She refuses to make a scene by trying to struggle out of his hold. Her bravado would be reduced to childish tugging at her leash if she did, and she won’t do it, not in front of Klaus. 

Back in her room, she spins on Stefan. “What is your _problem_?”

“I’m supposed to take care of you. Part of that is keeping you from flying off the handle and making foolish mistakes when I can prevent them.”

Elena sits down hard on her bed. “What does it even matter? Klaus isn’t going to _do anything_ to his precious doppelganger.” 

“Hasn’t he already though? _Done something_?” 

Elena glances at him. That last question sounded like he _almost_ cares.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Of course, one of the consequences of Zoe and Sasha’s death is that Elena stops her midnight prowls. She does not hear anymore strange noises—she doesn’t think she could stay in bed for even a second if there was just the smallest chance of saving _someone_ – but neither does she dare leave the feeble sanctuary of her room and go searching for encounters, either. 

The dreams are worse when she stays in bed all night. She misses her brother, and she misses her friends, and maybe, though she won’t admit it to herself except for in those first seconds after waking from a dream of piercing blue eyes and a slow, crooked smirk, she misses Damon most of all. 

_It’s okay to love them both_. 

She’s not so sure that it is, so she ignores that capacity within herself to do just that. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She decides that she won’t let Klaus’s behavior keep her from going to the library. It may be _his_ library, but he offered it to her, and now, in a weird way, she has a sense of it as _their_ library and she won’t be parted from this place, this _one place_ in this whole God-forsaken compound where she has ever felt safe, or even just a little bit happy. 

Part of her feels guilty for returning here after Zoe’s death, after the long line of innocent people that Elena _knows_ have followed since. But really, what else can she do? Stefan had been right. Giving up altogether accomplishes nothing. 

There’s an old translation of _The Iliad_ by Robert Fitzgerald. She’s seen _Troy_ , of course. She’d been twelve when it came out, and Caroline had been at the height of her Orlando Bloom obsession, and Bonnie had _pretended_ to be unimpressed with Brad Pitt. And even though it was rated R and neither their mothers nor Grams would let them see it, Jenna had just come home from college for her summer break and she’d snuck the three of them out to the theater. They’d gorged themselves on a huge bucket of buttery popcorn, and Caroline shrieked so much every time Orlando Bloom came on screen that Bonnie and Elena had ended up throwing half their popcorn at her, and Jenna had whispered her narration to Elena the whole time, like they were best friends, making Elena feel mature and special enough to hang out with her cool aunt. Her fingers spasm and she nearly drops the book. She’ll probably never go to another movie again. Certainly not with Jenna. 

She takes a deep breath.

The spine cracks when she opens the book, and a cloud of must perfumes the air. The pages have that slightly tacky feeling, like an old library book. The combination tickles her sense memory, transports her to another time. She reads and reads and reads. 

The story is a familiar one. It begins with a kidnapping—Chriseis and Briseis, two beautiful maidens, stolen from their homes and families. Briseis is given to Achilles as his war prize—Achilles, who is immortal in deed if not in theory, whose temper is like flame and whose revenge is selfish and wild and singular. Achilles, who kills and kills and kills, who is prideful and sulky and won’t come out of his tent for most of the epic, until he has his reckoning. 

Who is angry when Agamemnon takes Briseis from him, but not because he cares about Briseis—the movie had taken certain liberties there, when it had spun out that love story—but because having her taken from him is an assault on his pride, because she is _his possession_. 

It’s probable that the fact that she is so ready to see herself in fictional characters is a sign that she has been locked up too long. 

Stefan finds her at dinner time and escorts her back to her room— he’s been making a point lately to make sure she shows up for her meals. She leaves _The Iliad_ open on the sofa.

Afterwards, she wanders back into the library, intending to do some more reading before bed. She won’t risk falling asleep here, but it would be nice, to drowse in front of the fire, all warm and full. 

She trips over a dead girl sprawled across the library doorway, skirt hiked up around her hips, hair tangled over her wide glassy eyes. Her neck is twisted at an unnatural angle,  and that is _it_ , she has had _enough._

Elena steps over the body and marches over to where Klaus lounges in an armchair by the fire watching her with a delighted smile on his face. “What is _wrong with you_?” she demands. 

Klaus stands up slowly and stretches. His shirt pulls against the taut muscles of his arms and chest. “Nothing wrong with me, love, though I can hardly say the same about you,” he tells her cheerfully. The smile he gives her is not like the ones he used to give her— this one is meaner, more personal, and it’s that that tips her off. 

“God, is this because I _rejected you? Are your feelings hurt?”_ The smile doesn’t slip from his face, but there’s a tell-tale twitching to the corners of his mouth. When he doesn’t retort right away, she knows she’s read him right. 

“Do I not have the right to retaliate, then?”

“ _Retaliate_?” She presses her hands to her temples. “Let me get this straight. I hurt you, and you can’t hurt me back, not physically, so you go on a killing spree? You are so fucked up.” 

“So are you.” 

She laughs, and the sound is so tired and so bitter. The worst part is, he’s absolutely right. She’s not at all reacting how she should be, how she _knows_ she should be. She’s learned to brush off the deaths of strangers and classmates alike ages ago, just so long as the dead wasn’t someone she actually loved. Too many people die around her for her to ever imagine that every life is equal. Not to her, not since the day she met Stefan and everything she thought she knew was turned upside down. When did she become so _old_? 

“I may be fucked up, or whatever else, Klaus, but not like you,” she tells him lightly.Her voice rings in her ears. She sounds so much like Katherine that she has to pause and compose herself before she goes on, to double-check herself. “I don’t hurt people just because I don’t get my way. And you know what? I don’t need to kidnap or compel or threaten anyone to be with me.” She shoves past him and grabs her book off the sofa. She wants to read about how Achilles dies. 

He actually lets her leave, arms hanging loose at his side, no attempt to grab her or stop her. Just that blue stare that cuts and burns like molten glass. The fact that he has not struck out at her now probably bodes ill for the future. 

Once back in her room, she has trouble reading. Every time she gets settled, she feels a prickle on the back of her neck, and she swears she can feel those blue eyes boring into her again. 

 

 

 

 

 

When she wakes the next morning, Klaus is sitting in the armchair by her bed, flipping through her copy of _The Iliad_. He’s freshly showered, golden blond hair forming damp curls behind his ears, and his white long-sleeved shirt clings slightly to his chest and his back, where his skin is not quite dry. No blood anywhere. It strikes Elena that he looks perfectly normal like this, like he could be any man on the street, and the realization only adds to her sense of unease. The morning light pours in through the open blinds, and dust motes float in the bars of white sunlight. 

“Popular criticism always says this translation is melodramatic, but I’ve always preferred it,” Klaus tells her, just as casually as though they were discussing the issue over coffee. 

_Something’s wrong_. He shouldn’t be so friendly after what she told him last night. 

“That doesn’t surprise me.” Her throat feels tight, and burns when she tries to speak. 

“No? You think I have a taste for the dramatic?” 

“What else would you call the tableaus you’ve been arranging for me?” 

“Ah, and there is that self-centered streak again. Always assuming that everything I do is about you.” 

“That’s not being self-centered, that’s possessing basic observational skills. And I know it’s not about _me_. It’s just about my face, right?”

Klaus looks like he would like to respond to that, but ultimately does not. He creaks the book open and glances down at the pages. “You’re on the same page you were on last night. Didn’t get much late night reading in?” Klaus licks his finger before turning the page. 

Elena pushes her covers away and plants her bare feet on the wooden floor. This early in the morning, the floorboards are icy to the touch. She walks over to Klaus and holds her hand out. “Give me back my book.”

He continues leisurely flipping through the pages. “My book, actually. Now, I _know_ that you’re not a slow reader, as you’ve already raced through everything you’ve laid your delicate fingers on. So,” he drawls, looking up at her while she stands over him. “It must be something about the passage that has snagged your interest. Hm? Does that sound right?”

She shrugs. She may as well get this conversation over with. “I just got to thinking about Briseis.” 

To her surprise, Klaus looks genuinely puzzled by that answer. “Briseis? Really? Why is that?” 

“Really? _Why is that_? Kidnapped, tossed around between powerful men like she’s an object?” 

He waves her off. “It’s a flawed comparison. Briseis doesn’t really matter.” 

_Exactly._

She sits down on the edge of her mattress across from him. She doesn’t look at him when she asks, ”You don’t think I have a lot in common with Briseis?” 

“Don’t be foolish. If you’re anyone in that narrative, you are Helen.” 

Of course he’s given her the lead. 

“How do you figure? Helen’s not really kidnapped. She loves Paris.”

“But _oh_ — the destruction she causes. And all for a pretty face.” The armchair springs whine when Klaus stands. He steps into her space, and pulls her up to stand flush against him. He keeps one arm wrapped around her waist and cups her jaw with the other, tilting her head back so that she is forced to look into his eyes. The heat of him sinks into her bare skin, and she can’t help but lean into him just a little, even while she reminds herself of why he is so hot to the touch.

“It’s not really she who does the destroying, though. It’s everyone who follows her to Troy.” 

“Does it matter whether they die by her hand or in her name? They still die. And you know what?” He leans forward, so he can murmur his next words directly into her ear. She can feel his lips brush against the shell of her ear when he speaks. “You’re just like Helen. You hurt people just by existing.” 

Elena pulls back. “No, _you do_. _You_ hurt people.” She twists in his arms, trying to push him away, but he holds her fast.

“Tell that to the stack of bodies you’ve left in your wake. I’m sure your answer will amuse them.” 

“You’re twisting everything up.”

“Am I? Or am I just throwing light on a truth about yourself that you refuse to acknowledge? I’m not at all surprised that Stefan chooses to keep his distance from you. He probably knows it’s a wonder he made it out of your little romance alive. Perhaps he knows his survival will always be tenuous so long as you draw breath.”

He lets go of her and turns to leave. He takes a step and then pauses, turning back to her. “One more thought, sweetheart, while we’re on the topic of Helen of Troy. You’re right, of course, she wasn’t kidnapped— she _ran away_. I’d hate to see what would happen to your beloveds if you ever tried such a thing with me.” 

Elena frowns at him. “I’ve never run from you before. Why would I start now?”

“Just a thought.” Klaus leaves her before she can respond. 

Stefan comes in with her breakfast a few minutes later. The whole exchange could have been a very disturbing dream, if not for the fact that her whole life was a waking-nightmare. 

 

 

 

 

 

Elena does not particularly care, at this point, what happens to her. She’s taken herself out of the equation, a non-entity in this war for her own destiny, a war that she has lost. The example Klaus set half a millennium ago when he slaughtered everyone Katherine ever loved still serves as a powerful example of what happens to anyone who crosses him. 

But she does care about Stefan, and she does care about Tyler. Elena never lets herself picture for too long what would happen to Stefan and Tyler if she tried to escape. Whenever she does, it’s Klaus’s voice she hears telling her all of the lurid details. 

Still, the images are there, painted in red, gory, glorious detail, whenever she shuts her eyes to sleep. 

The ache of it is duller every day though as she becomes more and more used to how her life will be. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Elena spies the hybrids from the hallway window outside her bedroom one chilly morning. It’s the first week of October, and the weather is starting to change. The yard is foggy and damp, and the flowers that had bloomed so brightly in September have lost their petals and are starting to rot. 

The hybrids are out there in the yard, organized in lines— _no, regimens_ , she thinks. Klaus’s personal army, the little civilization of creatures just like him that he’s been so hell-bent on creating. All those creatures down there, each carrying a mixture of Klaus’s blood and hers. 

She squints, gaze flicking over the boys down there. Her eyes latch onto one in particular, his hair nearly black and his features sharp, even at this distance. The need to see him had swamped her the moment she noticed him. Just the chance to spend time with someone else. She’s seen him like this a few times, at a distance, out of reach. So far, she hasn’t had the chance to get close to him again, even though she has been on the look out. But this time is different. She can feel it in her gut, in the part of herself that takes wild leaps and always rolls to her feet. It’ll be hours yet before anyone comes looking for her, unless she is unlucky enough to get cornered by Rebekah. She’s not even certain Klaus is home. 

Yet she cannot help but turn Klaus’s threat over in her mind. Would making a point of seeing him make him even more of a target? Is she really allowed to see him, or will there by hybrids reporting back to Klaus if they see her with him? 

Still. She hadn’t gotten where she had by refusing to take chances.

She waits for Tyler in the hall near the front door, pressed back into an alcove where she won’t be in the immediate path of the hybrids coming in. After all, Klaus had told them to stay away from her. If she doesn’t go to them, she doubts that they’ll come to her. Tyler wanders in last, and she thinks that that’s a good sign, because then it is so easy for her to go to him without anyone else noticing. She latches on to his arm. 

“Elena, what are you doing?” he asks her when she pulls him off to the side with her. 

“I wanted to see you. Are you free?”

He glances over his shoulder. The other hybrids have already all disappeared, wherever it is they go when it’s time to be out of sight, out of mind. 

“For now, I guess.” 

“Good. Tyler, how have you _been?”_

His eyes rake over her. “Elena, you look—“ He clenches his jaw and looks over his shoulder again. “Let’s get out of here. Can you come with me?”

“Of course.” 

He nods, and then _he_ is the one latching onto _her_ , his grip steady and sure and so comforting, as he leads her down the stairs into the basement of the house, where there are a line of wooden doors in an unfinished hallway. He opens up the third, indistinguishable from all the rest, except that when he leads her in and shuts the door, she immediately recognizes the space as _his._

_“_ Is this your bedroom?”

“Yeah, I thought it would be a good place to talk.” 

There’s only one table in the room, a low desk. The entire surface of it is cluttered with stacks of paper, open tins of charcoal, the black dust of it sitting in piles under the desk. Some of the drawings are tacked up to the wall. Her heart clenches a little when she gets a closer look. 

Jeremy had told her that Tyler liked to draw the supernatural, or comic book villains, or cars— the natural inclinations of a high school jock with a hidden werewolf strain. 

These images though—

“You’ve got Caroline nailed. This looks just like her.” 

She glances at Tyler, notices he’s flushed. 

“I have a lot of time to think about her.” 

“Do you miss her?” 

“Of course. I miss everything.” 

She looks at the other drawings. There are others— his mother and his father. The Grill. Matt. The interior of the Lockwood Mansion. Mystic Falls’s eponymous waterfall. So many familiar faces and places, and she doesn’t think she’ll see any of them ever again. 

“You can’t leave either though, can you?” she asks him. “You’re stuck here as surely as I am. Because of me.” She can’t keep the self-recrimination from her voice. Maybe Klaus was right. Everyone really _does_ suffer because of her, no matter how much she tries to save them. 

“No, Elena, it’s because I’m part of something here.” And she hears it, that same burning purpose she had heard in his voice when she first saw him here. There’s something electric in his black eyes when he tells her, “I’m Klaus’s first hybrid. That means that I have to set the example. And that I have a responsibility to the others.” 

Elena sits down on Tyler’s bed. She flops back on it. The sheets smell like Tyler, like teenage boy, so very male and familiar. “You know Klaus wants to use you as leverage against me.”

Tyler shrugs and wanders closer to her. “I can multi-task. I can look out for the other hybrids and be leverage at the same time. No big deal.” 

Elena props herself up on her elbows to study him. He looks sincere, and totally aware of the decisions that he is making. “I can’t pretend to understand why you would _choose_ to be here, but I can understand that you have your reasons,” she finally tells him. 

Tyler nods. “You look like hell, Elena. Are you holding up okay?”

“Sometimes I think I just might be. And then I remember where I am, and who I’m with, and I don’t know how I can keep going like this.” 

“It’s not a place for humans,” Tyler agrees. Gingerly, he sits down next to her. “What can I do to help you?” 

She reaches out and touches his wrist. “Can you just be here with me?” 

Tyler looks down at her, frowning as he studies her. “I’m always going to be here for you, Elena. We’re like, Team Mystic Falls. I figure, we probably have to stick together.” 

“ _‘We must, indeed, all hang together, or assuredly we shall all hang separately’_?” 

Tyler wrinkles his nose. It’s the same face he made the first time they got drunk, back when the lot of them— Matt and Tyler and Elena— had found a half-consumed bottle of scotch under the floorboards in Tyler’s father’s study. Tyler doesn’t make that face often anymore. Certainly not when drinking. It amuses her to see that childish expression on his face again.

“What is that?” he asks, voice dripping with incredulity. “Shakespeare?” 

“Benjamin Franklin, at the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Were you not listening to Ric in class?”

“You know that I wasn’t.” 

“I never did get around to gluing Ric’s desk shut. On senior prank night, I mean. That’s what I was on my way to go do.” There’s a long pause. She hadn’t meant to bring the conversation back toward their current predicament so soon. She bites her lip. “Do you think they’re doing okay? Without us?”

“Oh, yeah, they’re totally fine. You _know_ that Caroline has that situation handled. She’s probably picked up the pieces and patched everyone up good as new by now. She’s got a freaky gift for that— for getting people through their troubles.” 

Elena forces a smile. Her tone is artificially bright when she speaks. “You’re right. Caroline will take care of everyone. And Bonnie and Jeremy will take care of each other. And Ric will take care of Damon.” The last time she had seen Damon, they had argued. How had he reacted when he found out she was just gone? Not well, she would wager. Maybe _take care_ is too strong a term for what Ric might be able to do for Damon.

Tyler grimaces like he’s read her mind. “Well, Saltzman will at least keep Damon from tearing the town apart.”

“And they’ll drink together.”

“Hey. We can drink together.”

“I would _love_ to drink together.” Elena looks around the room. “Do you have a stash? Klaus doesn’t like, forbid it or something, right?”

“ _Obviously_ I have a stash _._ I’m a Lockwood.” Tyler stands and rummages through his dresser door. He pulls out a bottle of bourbon. He uncaps it and offers her the bottle. “Just like old times?”

“I think that’s exactly what I need right now,” she tells him, and takes a swig from the bottle. “To old times.” 

Tyler resettles next to her on the bed, and for a while, they pass the bottle back and forth. There are no windows in his room, so there is no clear sense of time passing. Just the feel of Tyler stretched out next to her, warm and oh, so comforting. 

“That leaves Matt,” Elena tells him after a while.

“Hm?” 

“Matt. He’s the only one who doesn’t have someone to look after him.” 

“Caroline.” 

“They’re hardly close anymore. Not after last spring.” 

“Yeah, but Matt has a big heart, and so does Caroline. Everyone will be okay.” 

“Even us?”

“We’re going to look after each other, remember? I’m going to make an effort to do that, Elena. I just— I just got caught up, and you seemed okay, and then I saw you today— I’m going to be there for you. I promise.” 

She holds out her pinky to him. “Swear then. And I’ll swear that I’ll be there for you. We’ll look after each other.” 

Tyler hooks her pinky with his own. “I swear it. I’ll look after you, if you look after me, and we’ll hang out together so we don’t die alone. That’s how it went, right?” 

She laughs at him. “Something like that.” 

They get buzzed together, something they haven’t actually done since her parents died. And slowly, the talk turns to happier topics. They linger over those first two years of high school, when they had been two such reckless and happy kids. 

“Do you think you’ll ever see them again? Caroline or Matt or your mother?” 

“I figure I’ve got forever, Elena. I’ll see them again.” He doesn’t lie to her and tell her that she’ll see everyone again. She can always count on Tyler to be totally frank with her when it matters. It helps. 

“That makes me happy. I want to imagine you and Caroline together and happy one day.” 

“One day.” 

She must have fallen asleep, because the next thing she knows Tyler is shaking her awake with a hand on her shoulder. “I think it’s time, Elena.” 

Elena sits up and rubs the crud out of the corners of her eyes. “I’ll see you soon, though, right? We’ll find a time?” 

“Yeah, I’ll make sure of it.” 

Tyler walks her up to the ground floor of the house. She makes sure to hug him extra tight before they say their goodbyes. She’ll never take the chance to say goodbye properly for granted ever again. 

And she thinks, this is the first really goodday she’s had since she came here. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You’re chipper this morning.” 

She looks up at Stefan, who is walking beside her in the garden. It’s not as beautiful as it had been at the end of summer. It seems too early for the garden to be dying for the winter. 

“You’ve been smiling all morning,” he clarifies. “I thought you were brooding.” 

He’s right. She’s had a smile playing at the corners of her mouth ever since she left Tyler the night before. “Like you said, I can’t brood forever. Besides, I don’t have a diary anymore. Hard to brood without a pen and paper.” 

Stefan pauses. “Would you like a diary?” He sounds as surprised to be asking as she is to hear him ask.

The idea is very tempting. She misses her diary dearly. “Do you think that would be wise? To write everything down?”

“You’re a Gilbert. Whether it’s wise or not, I imagine you need to.” 

_You’re a Gilbert._ She hadn’t realized what a relief it would be to be called a Gilbert rather than a Petrova. 

“Do you still keep a diary?” she asks.

“I’ve always kept a diary. For brooding.” 

She stops mid-step. “Was that a joke? Are you actually _joking_ with me?” She puts her hand to his forehead and feigns taking his temperature. “I think you must be sick. Call the doctor.”

“Haha. You’re hilarious.”

“Oh no, you’re delirious now.” 

He knocks his shoulder against hers, that old gesture reminiscent of the time when they used to be so physical, when they laughed and played and kissed and touched as thoughtlessly as breathing. If Stefan thinks twice about the interaction, he doesn’t show it. 

“I was serious about the diary.I’ll getyou one.” 

“I… would like that very much. Thank you.” 

All in all, it’s an unusual day with Stefan. For once, everything feels easy between them. The smile stays on Elena’s face the rest of the day. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Stefan smiling too. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She won’t escape. 

Like a river cutting stone, she’ll wear them down. Tyler, Stefan. And one day, Klaus is going to wake up, and realize that his right-hand man and his star-hybrid belong to her. 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is a properly long update to make up for the slow summer! If you’re enjoying this story, please go ahead and drop a review— your feedback really does keep me writing when things get busy! xoxo


	9. Nine

 

 

 

 

 

 

Elena’s strongest association with Stefan is with the sun. 

Lazy mornings in bed, cuddled up close, exchanging long, lingering kisses and making each other laugh. That morning at the lake house, when he came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her and the water sparkled like diamonds, so bright she was blind to anything but how happy she was in that one moment. Her last normal day— _the_ last normal day, when he’d taken her to that waterfall and made her climb all the way to the top, their time together measured in the passing of the daylight overhead, until it finally disappeared over the horizon. 

She knows that it might be cold and dark now, but the sun also rises. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One morning, she wakes up, stretches her fingers under the cool side of her pillow, and unexpectedly runs into firm, rectangular leather. She throws the pillow out of the way and finds a diary, bound in supple blue leather, bounding waves tooled into the surface. The pages are creamy, the binding crisp.

The blank diary in her hand is so full of _potential._ Better— it’s a physical manifestation of a future where she can imagine herself filling those pages up. 

When Stefan comes in with her breakfast, neither of them make mention of the diary. But she smiles at him all morning, and the one quick smile she gets back is confirmation enough. 

Some secrets are best kept if no one ever mentions them. 

Once Stefan has left, and she is certain that he is out of hearing range, Elena routes through her room, looking for an adequate hiding place. She finds a floorboard under her bed that comes loose with some strategic prying. She slips the journal in and hopes it will be safe there. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She and Tyler steal pockets of time together, time where Elena doesn’t have to have her guard up, doesn’t have to be constantly analyzing and planning and posturing and _striving_ just to survive. A real sense of hope starts to unfurl in her chest. Delicate, yes, but real nonetheless. 

She’ll never be able to thank Tyler enough for the strength he gives her just by being her friend. 

Tyler is as good as his word to her. He never approaches her directly— he still insists that Klaus told him not to, and if he wants to follow the letter of Klaus’s orders, and not the spirit, she won’t stop him, not when plausible deniability might prove so important for him in the future— but he is very good at making himself available, at finding moments when the other hybrids are distracted and Elena just happens to be traversing the halls, climbing the stairs, hanging around the front door. They spend their time together closeted up in his room, hidden away from the rest of the house. 

On their second afternoon together, just two days after Tyler had promised her that he would be there for her, Elena takes her time looking through each one of her friend’s drawings. 

“What about your old work?” she asks him. “These don’t look like the kind of work Jeremy described to me.”

Tyler ducks his head and stares down at his toes. He’s _blushing_. “Jeremy told you about that?” 

She scoffs. “Tyler. My baby brother caught you drawing monsters. Before that was normal. _Of course_ he told me.” 

“Your brother can be such a little shit sometimes,” he tells her.

She puts her hands on her hips. “ _Tyler Lockwood_ , Jeremy has always been, and continues to be, off limits for your whining.” 

He holds up his hands. “Hey, now, Elena, I didn’t mean to activate the mama-bear reaction.”

Elena rolls her eyes at him, but it’s such a familiar script that she smiles while she does it. “Apology accepted, I guess.” She continues flipping through the drawings. “But you know, I think Jeremy would have liked it, if you’d wanted to talk to him about your drawings. He was an artist too.”

“Yeah, that would’ve flown real well. Don’t you know how mercilessly the guys on the team would’ve gone after me if it’d gotten out that I was having heart-to-hearts with Little Gilbert about _art_? And don’t even get me _started_ on how my dad would’ve reacted.” 

“Really? You think it would’ve been that big a deal?” 

“Yes!” 

She forgets how tied up Tyler had been with high school social politics. Or what his dad had been like. All of those details of day-to-day life from _before_ the Salvatores came into her life are so rarely dwelled upon, seem so insignificant in the face of what happened afterwards. Still, it stings to hear Tyler’s assessment of her brother. 

“Do you think you would still feel that way now? If we’d been able to finish out our senior year?”

“About the drawing?”

“About Jeremy. And the drawing,” she throws in as an after-thought, because she has the feeling that Tyler is more comfortable talking about his secret artwork than he is about her little brother.

“Look, ‘Lena, we can’t ever know how it would’ve played out in the end. Yeah, I think Jeremy was pretty much alright in the end. Colluding with you guys to kill vampires seems like it was really good for him. Built character, or whatever.” 

“ _Wow._ Tyler Lockwood passes judgment on character.” 

“I have character,” he tells her, so sincerely that she is taken aback. 

Elena puts down the sheaf of papers she’d been flipping through and looks athim. She thinks of Tyler, who is so, so flawed. Who picked fights with Jeremy every chance he got during the worst few months of their lives, who treated Matt’s sister terribly and made out with his mother, who got Caroline captured and tortured and hurt her _so badly_. Tyler, who always came through in the end, who helped pick up the pieces when her parents died, who forgave Caroline for her part in his uncle’s death, who did not abandon them when he discovered all the secrets they had kept from him. Who had endured horrible pain every full moon for seven months, and yet still kept his sense of humor, his warmth and his loyalty. Who felt such responsibility toward the other hybrids that he would not abandon them, even though she wished he really would. Tyler, who had sworn to be her friend here. 

“I know you have character,” she tells him seriously. “I see it more every day.” 

Tyler looks absolutely surprised, surprised and happy, by her affirmation of him. She has always thought Tyler was arrogant, but she sees she was wrong now. Arrogance had only ever been his shield, to hide the uncertainty underneath. What had his life been like, before last year, that that shield should have been so firmly in place by the time they reached puberty? What had he meant, about how his father would have reacted? She had always known that Mayor Lockwood had a temper, especially after a few drinks— everyone knew that. But what if it had been more? Suddenly, everything Elena thought she knew about Tyler is painted in a brand new light, pieces fitting together that had seemed disparate and unrelated in the past. She’s ashamed that she never noticed before.

Elena clears her throat, which feels tight all of a sudden, like she might cry. That would be silly, though. Tyler would never forgive her if he thought she pitied him even an ounce. 

“So I assume you get to leave whenever you want, right?” She picks up a carton of fine vine charcoal. “Because you definitely didn’t have any of these things when you arrived.” 

“Not whenever I want, no, but sometimes. More often if Klaus decides he trusts us.” 

“Does he trust you?”

“I’ve never given him a reason not to.” 

A thought occurs to her. “Tyler, you have to promise me that you won’t _ever_ give him a reason not to trust you. Not for as long as it takes.” 

“For as long as _what_ takes, Elena?” 

She doesn’t answer him. “Promise me,” she tells him instead. 

Tyler studies her like he can see right through her. When had his eyes become so sharp? “I promise.” He ruffles the back of his hair. “Geez, asking for lots of those lately, huh?”

“Well, you’re the only one who’ll make them to me anymore. I have a quota to fill.” 

“Then I suppose I have a responsibility to you.” 

“Is that so bad?”

“To be beholden to Elena Gilbert? No, it’s not bad at all.” 

The thing about being with Tyler is that the hours pass more swiftly than they do under any other condition here. She spends two hours longer with him than she meant to, and has to race up the stairs by the kitchen back to her room if she is going to meet Stefan on time for dinner. 

She’s flying up the stairs between the first and second floor when she runs headlong into Klaus, knocking her precariously off balance. Her arms windmill as she tries to keep herself from tumbling backwards, and there’s a moment where she thinks she really will have a nasty fall, but Klaus grabs her by the shoulders and stabilizes her with apparently effortless ease. Like this, they are in nearly identical positions to the last time she saw him that morning in her bedroom, several days ago now. 

“Ah, Elena, there you are. I’ve been searching for you.”

Her guard goes up immediately. “Well here I am.” 

“Hm, and where were you before that? Not in the library, certainly.” 

“No, I was just in the kitchen,” she tells him, scrambling for an excuse. Somehow, she knows better than to let Klaus know she’s been spending time with Tyler again. If he knew, he would probably find a way to take that time away from her just to spite her. She hopes he wouldn’t kill Tyler if he knew, but she cannot put it past him. There have been too many dead bodies lately for her to put anything past him. 

Klaus raises an eyebrow. 

“What? I was hungry.” Not good. She sounds defensive even to herself. 

“Were you, indeed? Are your meals inadequate?” His tone implies that he’s just playing along with her. 

She wishes she were certain what game they were playing. 

“I just wanted a snack, it’s not that big of a deal.” She pulls out of his hold and he lets her. “Anyway, it’s dinner time now. I’m sure Stefan is already waiting for me.” 

She can feel his eyes on her while she climbs the stairs to the second story, imagines she can feel him _listening_ to her as she makes her way down the hall to her bedroom. 

It’s only as she is turning into her bedroom that she realizes Klaus never told her why he was looking for her. 

After that, Elena is very careful to keep track of the time she spends with Tyler. She doesn’t want anyone to notice her absence ever again. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fall marches on, and the green leaves begin to turn brown in the autumn rain.

Stefan helps her into a warm coat before he takes her out. His fingers linger longer than quite necessary as he adjusts her collar. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Spending time with Tyler puts things in perspective for Elena in a way that had been utterly lacking in her seclusion thus far. It was amazing how just a few carefree, honest hours a week could completely turn around her outlook. There’s a dance in her step and a smile on her lips that had been absent so long that she had forgotten she’d ever had them. 

Amazingly, Stefan is especially responsive to her shift in attitude. They’re talking again, in ways that they haven’t talked since before Klaus’s specter had first darkened their lives last winter. Never about anything important. Rather, they talk about anything else, which quickly becomes everything else. Her relationship with him has become surprisingly easy ever since she hit upon the idea of simply not forcing him into difficult discussions. 

_(Secretly, she thinks that she’s accomplished more to turn Stefan to her side in the past week than she had accomplished in the seven weeks of her stay before that time.)_

Today, they are dissecting the merits (or, in Elena’s opinion, serious demerits) of ‘80s hair bands. It’s drizzling, and the wind bites at Elena’s cheeks and nose as she trudges across the lawn with Stefan. The rain droplets hang in a fine mist in the air, like a gauzy curtain of crystals. Each breath she takes steams the air. 

“You can say what you want,” Elena tells him, “but Bon Jovi and Van Halen both suck.” 

“What’s wrong with you?” Stefan asks. “How can you not like Bon Jovi? It’s _Bon Jovi_.” He emphasizes the name like that’ll persuaded her. 

Elena wrinkles her nose. “Because they’re both completely ridiculous? You’re only taking this so personally because he was your drinking buddy.” 

“Well, yeah. But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s unacceptable for you not to like Bon Jovi.” His mouth crooks into a smile as he looks down at her from the corner of his eye. “I can’t believe this has never come up before. We listened to Slippery When Wet _all the time_.” 

Elena shrugs. “I wasn’t going to rain on your parade if you wanted to relive the ‘80s on the way to school.” 

“Hey. You have no idea what you’re even talking about. Take that back.” He frowns. “Besides, it was the ‘80s. None of it seemed so over-the-top.” 

“Oooooh getting defensive now, must have hit a nerve.” She pats his arm. “It’s okay, I won’t tell anyone you have terrible taste in music.”

“I’m not hearing this right now.” 

A tongue of lightning splits the sky, followed a moment later by a crack of thunder. They make it inside just before the drizzle becomes a deluge. 

The rain persists throughout the day. Bolts of blue lightning illuminate the hallways darkened by the heavy gray clouds outside, and the walls tremble when the thunder rolls through. 

Elena returns to the unused music room on the third floor that afternoon. It’s a new spot for her, out of the way and seemingly forgotten by the others. Stefan is already there when she enters the room. Just like the last time, he is fiddling with the upright piano, his sleeves rolled up over his elbows, but this time he has what she recognizes as tuning instruments with him. 

She closes the door behind her and steps up to the instrument and trails her fingers along the keys. “Are you fixing the piano?” she asks him.

“Just finished.” 

Elena pulls the bench over from where Stefan had cleared it away to work and taps her finger against C8. She’d had piano lessons— briefly— in the fourth grade. Embarrassingly little skill was left over from that time. 

Stefan sits down next to her on the bench. His body presses against her side. The feel of him—- hot and solid— makes her flush. It’s likely that Stefan can sense it, all that blood pooling just under her skin, the sweat pricking at her pores. 

“There’s a better piano downstairs,” he tells her. “A grand piano that Klaus keeps tuned in the front parlor.” 

“Then why did you fix this one?” 

He takes a moment to answer. “There are a lot of broken things I can’t fix. Even if I wanted to. It’s good, sometimes, to fix things.”

That has always been his way. Fixing cars or fixing his brother, the desire to make better has always defined him as much as his tendency to be the one who broke them apart in the first place. 

Rather than respond, Elena positions her hands over the keys and plays a familiar melody. 

“Heart and Soul?” Stefan asks incredulously. “You just spent the morning insisting my taste was terrible, and you’re playing Heart and Soul?” 

“No, Stefan, _we’re_ playing Heart and Soul.” She nudges him, and she doesn’t pull away from him, and he doesn’t push her away. 

He acts totally put upon, of course, but he goes along with her anyway. His hands find their rhythm in the song next to hers, and their arms tangle while their hands dance along the keys. Elena can’t help but laugh at him while she plays— he is always so serious and so doom and gloomy, and yet here he is, playing a song from her childhood. 

Stefan turns his head to look down at her. He looks like he’s about to say something to her, but the words die on his lips. Instead, he gets caught in her gaze, the moment going long and syrupy between them, that distended pocket of time between the realization that he is going to kiss her and the actuality of his lips pressed against hers.

It’s been over six months since Stefan last kissed her. Back in Mystic Falls, she used to lie awake at night trying to remember what the last kiss had even been. She never could recall. Stefan’s departure from her life had been swift and sudden, their final conversationon the town green giving no indication that things would come to such an end between them. 

This kiss isn’t like the kiss they might have shared in that small window of time between her resurrection and his departure. This kiss is hungry, like Stefan is trying to take as much of her as possible with each pass of his lips over hers. He reaches up and drags her against him, his arms crushing her impossibly close. That’s okay. Elena wants to be crushed, if it’s Stefan doing the crushing. Her fingers tangle in his hair as she tilts his head for better access to his mouth. She bites his lip, and revels in the silent snarl he makes against her mouth. She wants to claim him just as much as she wants him to claim her. 

Vaguely, she registers the door opening before she is struck by a hammering blow to her chest that sends her flying off the bench. She lands heavily against the far wall. Her head smacks against the plaster with a definitive crack. Immediately, Stefan is at her side, checking the back of her head for injuries.

“What the _hell_ did I just walk in on?” Rebekah demands from where she stands at the upright piano. She stands with her hands on her hips, pinning Stefan with her gaze as surely as an insect pinned to a board. 

Instead of the unease Elena would expect from him in this situation, he looks totally cool under Rebekah’s glare. “That wasn’t anything, Bex.” His fingers press painfully into the new bruise on the back of her skull. 

“Don’t patronize me, Stefan, I saw you kissing her!” She picks up the piano bench and hurls it at them. It explodes just above Elena’s head, sending splinters raining down onto her. “You’re always using your orders from Klaus as an excuse to be with her and I’m _sick of it_ , Stefan _._ It’s always _Elena this_ and _Elena that_ , and when will _I_ be first with you? Do you know what it feels like, for me to come in and find you with _her?_ ” Her voice rises wildly as she speaks, an uneven tide of anger and pain like the swell and crash of waves during a storm. Tears run down Rebekah’s face even as the vampire’s visage transforms her face into something demonic and inhuman. “You know what, I knew something was amiss. I heard her laughing, and I heard the piano, and I just _knew_ something was wrong, and I thought, no, Stefan’s good to me, he wouldn’t _hurt me_ or _betray my trust_ , not with— what do you call her? oh yes— with _Klaus’s bloodbank._ ” 

“Rebekah—“ 

“No, Stefan, I’m not going to listen to anymore excuses, I _saw you.”_ She turns her attention onto Elena. “I suppose you’re feeling really proud of yourself, hm? You got Stefan to stray from me, actually got him to kiss you? Enjoy the memory, darling, because it’s the only one you’re going to get.” 

And then Rebekah is on her, tearing her out of Stefan’s grasp like it’s the easiest thing in the world, her fangs slicing into her neck like a knife through butter. She thinks she might have screamed when Rebekah bit into her, but the sound of her blood pounding in her ears is so loud that she cannot be certain. 

For the first time since she has come here, Elena genuinely thinks she is going to die. There’s an odd comfort to the familiarity of the feeling. 

It only lasts a moment, but it seems like an eternity. 

Klaus pulls Rebekah off of her, appearing in the room as suddenly as his sister had only a few minutes before. Rebekah actually stumbles a few steps before catching her balance. Elena’s blood drips down her chin and stains the front of her white shirt crimson. 

“And who, dear sister, gave you permission to touch my doppelganger?” Klaus asks. His voice is very low, and very dangerous. 

Klaus stands protectively between Elena and Rebekah; Rebekah looks as though she would like to have another go at her, but isn’t certain she can make it past her brother. Stefan, meanwhile, has perfected his poker face. His expression is carefully blank as he watches the two Originals square off against each other. Undoubtedly the safest course of action. How else, Elena reflects, could Stefan survive these two for long if he were not terribly good at playing the diplomat? Or, no, _the courtier_. 

“Oh, I don’t need your bloody permission, Nick,” Rebekah retorts, disgust thick in her voice. “The creature deserved it.” 

“Hardly,” Elena mutters. Her vision swims, and her whole body aches. 

Klaus turns to eye her speculatively. “And why is that?” he asks Rebekah. “What could possibly entitle you to touch her against my express command?” 

“I walked in on her with Stefan. You can’t possibly hold me accountable for how I responded. You would have done the same.” 

Klaus raises his eyebrow and looks to Stefan, who has been quiet throughout the exchange. “With Stefan… or _with_ Stefan?” There’s an edge of menace to his tone that Elena distinctly does not like. 

“ _With_ Stefan!” Rebekah cries. 

Klaus saunters over to Stefan’s side and lays his hand on Stefan’s shoulder. He leans down, slightly, so that they are making eye contact. “This now marks the second time you’ve betrayed me or mine for this girl, do you realize? How am I supposed to trust you, when I’m not certain where your loyalties lie? When you have a habit of choosing her over us?”

“It wasn’t a matter of loyalty. I swear it. It meant nothing.” 

“Nothing.” His voice is flat when he speaks. “I’ll be interested to see you prove that to me, Stefan. In the mean time, it seems as though you have an overdue lovers’ quarrel. How about you get that over with while I tend to Elena, who means nothing, hm?” 

Stefan nods, slowly. He darts a quick glance at her, so fast she would have missed it were her own eyes not riveted to his face. 

And then Klaus is grabbing her by the arm to lead her out of the room, in just the manner he grabbed her in the halls on Senior Prank Night. He whisks her back to her bedroom, where he deposits her unceremoniously onto her bed. The momentum makes her bounce on the mattress and she nearly sicks up. She’s still bleeding freely from her neck wound, and her head throbs dreadfully. 

Wordlessly, Klaus bites into his wrist and offers her the wound from which to drink. She accepts the offer without a fight. She knows that even if she tried to refuse, Klaus would just force her to accept in the end. His blood coats the inside of her mouth, her lips, her teeth. Beneath the normal taste of blood, there is something else there. Something old and dark that she instinctively recognizes. He tastes like power. A power that she, too, possesses. 

Afterwards, he leans over her and runs a finger down her neck, coating the digit in the blood that remains on her newly healed neck. He sticks the bloody finger in his mouth and sucks it clean. “Just as I remember you tasting,” he murmurs. There’s a golden glint to his eyes when he speaks. 

In that moment, she’s thrown forcibly back in time. She’s too terrified to move, lest he want more from her than just that taste. 

“That,” Klaus tells her as he straightens up, “was a profoundly stupid thing you did today.”

Upstairs, the very distinct sound of the upright piano crashing against the wall reverberates through the house.

“It’s not my fault that Rebekah acts like a psychopathic toddler.” 

Klaus laughs at her. The sound is cruel rather than merry. “How conveniently you waive your own guilt on to another party!” 

“ _My_ guilt? What did _I_ do?” 

Klaus clenches his jaw, and she senses the wolf straining at the edges of him. “I’ve gone to great trouble to keep you alive and to care for you. I’ll be angry if you undo all of that in a fit of momentary lust.”

“It wasn’t _lust_.” She won’t go so far as to tell him that she loves Stefan. Despite the fact that he already knows it, it still seems dangerous to remind him. “And besides, do you really expect me to go the rest of my life without companionship?” 

“I already offered you mine.” 

The horrible thought that Klaus is _jealous_ of Stefan unfurls in her mind. She leans away from him, trying to put as much distance between them as she can. “I thought we were finished discussing that.” 

“Were we? Tell me, now, because I am truly curious. What does it take to get under the lovely Elena’s skin? What is the special allure of Stefan Salvatore? — Not that I’m reprimanding your taste, sweetheart— personally, I understand the attraction completely, and he’s undoubtedly the superior of the Salvatore brothers— but he is still as vicious a beast as they come. What is the appeal there? Was he your first?” 

She blinks at him. “What? No.”

He waves his hand at her. “Then explain it to me.” 

This is a dangerous path Klaus has set her to walk. There are too many pitfalls where Klaus’s ego is concerned, and nearly any answer she gives could be catastrophic for Stefan.

And anyway, how could she ever explain her _real_ reasoning? That she had promised Stefan her heart, forever, and that she had meant that pledge, no matter what? That she had faith in him that could overcome what had happened to him this summer? That recognized the tragedy of what Stefan had become _because of Klaus_? Or that Elena knew, underneath the monster, the boy she loved still lived and breathed. Had still given her a diary with waves tooled onto the cover. 

“You wouldn’t understand,” she tells him. 

He smiles at her, and the change in his demeanor to this pleasant facade sends alarm bells ringing in her head. “Are you so certain? I might understand only too well, what it’s like to yearn for someone whose loyalties are divided.” 

“Stefan’s loyalties are only divided because you brainwashed him.” 

“I think you’ll find that you’re wrong.” Klaus backs away from her to lean against the doorway. He tilts his head to look at her. “Are you as fickle as your ancestresses, Elena? I rather hope for your sake that you are. It would be best if you gave Stefan over. As you’ve seen tonight, Rebekah does have her temper, as well as a possessive streak.” 

“Gee, that’s not familiar at all.” 

Klaus smiles deepens. It is all sharp teeth. “We do have our family resemblances. I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept.” 

The unmistakable sound of shattering glass wafts downstairs, followed by a crack and the splintering of something large and wooden. 

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to make certain that my dear sister doesn’t quite literally rip Stefan’s heart out.” 

She knows he’s probably speaking literally. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She falls asleep on top of her covers, her arms wrapped around her pillow like she had them wrapped around Stefan twenty minutes before. 

She dreams.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stefan is careful to speak with her as little as possible after that afternoon. 

On the periphery, Rebekah circles them like a vulture. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She spies Tyler from a second story window, talking to Klaus as they walk the length of the front yard. 

 

 

 

 

 

The music is what pulls her from her room that night. Perhaps it’s stupid, after what happened the last time she left her room too long after dark, but her curiosity gets the best of her. Other than when she and Stefan had had their duet, Elena has heard no music in this house. 

Tonight, music reverberates through the walls, pounds into her bones. She crawls out of bed, still dressed in her sleeping tank and cotton pajama shorts, and follows the pulse of it downstairs, to a set of wide double doors that have always been closed before this. 

Tyler stands just outside of them. She sees him from the foot of the stairs. Just the sight of him relieves her; she cannot truly believe that anything is amiss if Tyler is a part of it. _(Surely, he cannot be so far lost.)_ When she waves at him and strides over to him, though, he makes a motion like he wants her to stay back. 

“Elena! Just the girl I was wanting to see!” Klaus’s voice calls to her from beyond the double doors. 

Now that she is close enough, she sees that the double doors lead into a large parlor, replete with the grand piano Stefan had mentioned before. There’s a roaring fire in the hearth, casting strange shadows over the walls. It is the only light in the room. A mass of people she’s never seen before dance and writhe in the cleared out center of the room, where the music is the loudest. Klaus lounges on a leather sofa, a hazy-eyed blonde girl tucked under his arm, and after a moment, she realizes that Stefan is here too, lingering near the back of the room. The piano keys are covered in blood. 

Elena looks back at Tyler. No, he’s not participating— more like _standing attendance_. 

Tyler shakes his head. _I’m sorry, Elena_ , he mouths at her. 

Now that Klaus has seen her, she has no choice but to go to him. Ignoring him is simply not an option. Elena’s still staring at Tyler’s face, his eyes so large she can see the whites of them all the way around, as she stumbles into the room. 

Klaus murmurs something to the blonde girl, who gets up and pours herself a drink, before signaling Elena over to him. He strikes like a viper when she is in range, drawing her down to sit close to his side. “We’re having a party,” he murmurs in her ear. He offers her his glass. “Would you care for a drink?”

Elena hesitates, glances around. She cannot let Klaus see how unnerved she is by the situation. Tentatively, she takes a sip of Klaus’s drink and studies the crowd a little further. Not all of them, but many of them have bloody wounds running down their necks, their wrists and shoulders. Others bear the telltale sign of feeding. “How many of these are hybrids?” she asks, indicating the strangers. 

“Oh, perhaps half a dozen of them. The rest we got from a college campus. Lots of young people, all eager to have a good time.” 

“I doubt they signed up to be fed on.”

“No one says you can’t give a little blood and still have a good time.” 

The blonde returns and hands Klaus a fresh drink. He clinks his glass against Elena’s. “Cheers,” he murmurs. “Drink up, love.” 

Whatever it is, it is very good, and very strong. She feels immediately more relaxed as soon as the burn of it settles in her stomach. 

Klaus rests his hand on her bare thigh. His fingers trace patterns and send goosebumps racing over her flesh. She feels all hot and cold. She takes another sip of her drink, hoping it will settle her. Why she doesn’t push him away, she cannot say. 

“What is Stefan doing?” she asks after a while. She had lost sight of him in the crowd the moment she sat down next to Klaus. 

Idly, Klaus continues touching her with just the barest of pressure, fingers tracing lightly toward the curve of her inner thigh.“Whatever I ask him to do. He’s making up for yesterday.” 

“Klaus—“ 

“I’ve told him he’s not to leave this room until everyone within it is drained absolutely dry. You are, of course, excluded from that instruction.” 

Elena pulls away from him. Her mouth is hanging open— The proper response here would be to beg Klaus, to ask him not to make Stefan go through with this, to make some sort of clever deal to let the innocent people in the room go— but she fumbles with the word. 

At that moment, Rebekah struts into the room. Elena sees her out of the corner of her eye, a flash of bouncing blonde curls and an immaculate white designer sweater. 

Klaus also turns his attention to Rebekah. “Ah, sister, I see you’ve brought our guest of honor.” The way Klaus says this last part is what tells Elena that things are quickly going to go from bad to worse. 

She is right. 

Clutched by the scruff of his neck, unable to break free of Rebekah’s hold, is Matt Donovan.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please drop a review and let me know your thoughts! Thank you!
> 
> Also, I will probably comb through this more carefully this weekend, but as I'm going on a trip, I was anxious to get this behemoth of a chapter posted!


	10. Ten

 

 

 

 

 

 

She had begun to grow complacent, caught in the web between herself and Stefan, his bland smiles and careful caresses and oh, those fleeting moments when she felt the old spark between them.

It’s why it is so shocking when something happens to break the spell.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Klaus turns from her and offers Rebekah a beaming smile that is all teeth. “Ah, sister, I see you’ve brought our guest of honor.”

Everyone reacts at once.

Rebekah hauls Matt over to where Elena and Klaus are seated. Elena tries to rise from her seat and go to him, but Klaus pulls her back down by the wrist and throws his arm around her shoulders, keeping her pinned in next to him. The doors, half shut after Rebekah’s swift entrance, burst open, and Tyler races into the room, looking anxious and pained and not at all certain of himself. In the periphery of her vision, Elena notices that Stefan has approached their circle as well, fresh blood shining wetly on his chin in the firelight. Even the hybrids have stopped feeding on and dancing with the humans and are watching. Waiting. Someone has turned the music off, and the silence pulses.

The air carries a charge to it that it didn’t have half an hour ago, despite the hedonistic activities that had been going on before. It’s as though everyone in the room _knows_ —whatever happens now _matters_. This isn’t some random violence—it’s something their leaders, their _alpha_ and his vicious sister, have planned.

Elena’s stomach twists. The fire feels very hot against her face and throat. She fights down the urge to heave, wishing desperately that she had not let Klaus coerce her into drinking so much so fast.

How stupid could she get, to think that she’d already lost, that there wasn’t always _more_ that Klaus could take from her?

“Come now, let’s see the boy,” Klaus calls, gesturing vaguely in Matt’s direction with his free hand. “I never did have the pleasure of this introduction during my last two trips to town.”

Rebekah cocks her head and studies Matt, circling round and eyeing him up and down. “You know, he really is quite cute,” she muses aloud. She says it like she could be studying a dress she likes in a shop window.

Matt stares at Elena, his blue eyes piercing her. There’s no blame in that gaze, only the steady loyalty and love he had always offered her, no questions asked. He has the look of someone trying so, so hard to be brave, of someone who ready and willing to lay his life down for another’s.

“Matt—“ she croaks. Her throat is very dry. “Matt—“ How could she ever voice what she is feeling right at this moment? How could she ever pass on to him her love, her loyalty, when just the hint of that would surely be enough for Klaus to rip Matt to shreds?

Matt opens his mouth like he would like to speak, but no words come.

Rebekah offers Elena a venomous smile. “Oh, don’t worry, darling, I compelled him to be silent. It would have been _such_ a long trip if he were asking questions all the way.” She looks past Elena then, to where Stefan is watching the entire scene unfold, tense like a drawn wire, before very deliberately leaning forward to run her tongue up the side of Matt’s neck from his collar up to the underside of his jaw.

“Klaus,” Stefan begins. “I don’t see the point in dragging the quarterback into this, his absence is only going to raise questions—“

Tyler cuts him off. “Matt doesn’t have anything to do with anything, I swear it. Please, just let him go back home, Klaus. _Please_. I’ll do anything you ask me too.”

Elena has never heard Tyler beg before. Not for anything, not ever. 

Something about the display seems to amuse Klaus. His mouth quirks into a small, close-lipped grin, like he’s trying to fight the expression but the mirth just shines through his eyes instead. “While your display of selflessness for your friend here is touching, Tyler, it’s a bit hollow seeing as you already do anything and everything I ask you to. In fact, I think I’d like it if you and the other hybrids would leave now.”

To Elena’s absolute shock, Tyler actually backs down. The other hybrids turn, leaving the remaining humans huddling in the furthest corner, and head for the door. All that Tyler can muster is one last look before he, too, turns and abandons them. 

Klaus must have felt her stiffen in his arms. He turns to her and grins, full out now. “Oh, you look absolutely shocked, sweetheart. Don’t be so scandalized. Our Mr. Lockwood’s not truly all that brave when we come down to it.” 

She keeps her eyes focused straight ahead on Matt while he speaks. Wills herself to be braver than Tyler. For Matt.

And oh, Matt is shaking, fine tremors wracking through his body that he is trying to hide. If his audience were human, he would be doing a good job. But to a room full of vampires… he must look like he’s shaking like a leaf.

“I’ve done everything you’ve asked me too,” she grinds out. “Why bring Matt into this? Don’t you have enough ammo to use against me already?” 

“Oh, no, this isn’t about _that_ sort of leverage at all. I wanted to meet this Matt Donovan personally.”

She twists around in Klaus’s arms. “ _Please_ , Klaus.”

He drops his arm from around her shoulder to rest his palm on the curve of her bare thigh instead. He traces his finger over the sensitive skin there and watches the goosebumps he raises as he asks, “Please what? I’m not a mind reader, you know.” 

“Please don’t hurt him.”

“Oh, don’t worry, my dear, I won’t harm a hair on his head. Truly.” 

Elena frowns. Where is the lie? “Do you give me your word?” 

“Of course.”

Rebekah flops back against the sofa cushions and picks at her nails. “To be truthful, Nick, I don’t think he was really worth the trouble. I’d ask if you were sure he was definitely the one—don’t get me wrong, he’s got beautiful eyes, I just think he’s a bit dull—except I _know_ how that must have appealed.”

Stefan tries to break in again. “Klaus, this is unnecessary.”

“I don’t recall telling you to stop feeding.” Klaus twists round to make eye contact with Stefan, locks him in that vice-like gaze. “Keep going, then.”

Stefan complies. For his part, his mouth twists and his jaw clenches as though he would like to say more, but the moment passes and Stefan prowls back toward the gaggle of humans, obedient as can be. Methodically, he begins grabbing them by the shoulder and feeding.

None of them scream. None try to flee. Their bodies all sound exactly the same when they hit the floor. 

Dully, Elena wonders how they were compelled. What orders, exactly, did Klaus give them? _Don’t be frightened. Enjoy yourself. Don’t run. Don’t make a sound._

She’s glad, vaguely, that he had at least given her the dignity of not compelling her before he killed her.

“Bex, why don’t you let our new friend here have a word?” He gestures for Matt to have a seat across from him once Rebekah lifts the compulsion.

When Matt speaks, he addresses himself solely to her. “We all thought you were dead, Elena. I thought…”

Her eyes drink him in, every detail of him. She wills herself not to reveal anything that would only get them all in trouble. “Don’t worry about that, Matty,” she tells him. _Worry about yourself_. “I’m alright.”

Klaus breaks in. “Yes, as you can see, I’m taking quite extraordinary care of my doppelganger, so I think we can move on now.”

Matt pins Klaus with a truly impressive glare as he takes a seat across from them, next to Rebekah. “So I guess this means you’ve been holding Elena captive this whole time, huh?” 

Rebekah scoffs. “No, she’s our guest. What else would she be?”

Matt ignores Rebekah entirely as he focuses in on Klaus and Elena. It’s a striking display of bravado, especially since Rebekah had just kidnapped and compelled him.

Klaus leans forward to study Matt. He keeps his hand on Elena’s knee. “Yes, I think you’ll find that Elena’s quite settled here. However, there were some things about her that I was curious about, and it was so helpfully pointed out to me that you may have the answers.”

Matt frowns. “Me? Answers about what? What could I possibly answer for you that Stefan doesn’t already know?”

“Hm, you would think that Stefan _would_ have all the answers, and I have asked him about Elena here, but you see, there are some secrets that only a long acquaintance could tell. For instance, why exactly did Elena choose to give her maidenhead to you?”

Matt’s mouth drops open. He actually splutters. It would be comical under different circumstances.

“Oh for God’s sake.” Rebekah rolls her eyes and stands up. “ _Ew_.” She stomps over to the other side of the room, to watch Stefan work. 

A blush burns across Elena’s cheeks. “You can’t be serious,” she tells him, voice low.

“No, I’m completely serious.” He turns back to Matt. “I would like to know what made you, particularly, so special.”

“I’m not—we were just—“ Matt looks at her helplessly.

“Each other’s first lovers, I know. Perhaps you weren’t aware of the magnitude of the situation, but it’s something to have earned the attention of a Petrova. More worthy men have failed where you apparently succeeded.”

“You’re making it into a bigger deal than it was,” Elena tells him firmly. “We were just friends, who happened to have dated for a little while.”

Matt straightens up. “Yeah, we were childhood friends. It was natural to develop feelings for each other.”

Klaus smiles. “I notice Elena doesn’t frame your relationship in quite the same terms, Matt. Do I detect a difference in your feelings? Did you care more for her than she did for you?” His hand strokes her thigh as he speaks. 

In the background, she can hear the sound of bodies hitting the floor every few minutes, like the slow roll of a drum. The smell of blood hangs heavy in the air. 

Elena places a hand on his arm. “Klaus, stop it.” 

He brushes her off and peers into Matt’s eyes. “Tell me, how did she end it?”

“At a party in the woods,” Matt tells him, the truth torn from him by Klaus’s hypnotic blue gaze. “Out of the blue. The night her parents died.”

“You didn’t see it coming?” 

“No. I was in love with her.” 

“Ah, so she broke your heart then. I’m familiar with the feeling. How did that make you feel?”

“Honestly, like she’d torn my heart out.”

The statement is punctuated by the thump of another body against the floor.  

Tears prick at Elena’s eyes. She’d never felt guilty for breaking up with Matt. It had been the right thing to do. But then, even though she had been aware, if somewhat distantly, that he still carried a torch for her, he had never pressed her on it, and she thought they had moved past that point in their relationship. It was always their friendship she focused on when she thought of him, not their brief romance.

Klaus laughed, breaking eye contract. “She’s a cruel thing, isn’t she?”

“Fuck you.” 

“Oh, but she wouldn’t. That’s why I’m so curious. Why _you_?” Klaus leans back and puts his arm back around her, drawing her close against him. “I suppose you’ve conducted yourself well, under the circumstances,” he tells Matt. “Other men have not handled themselves so well in similar situations, and your behavior might be construed as brave—though, I rather think foolish might be the better word for it.”

“Look, Klaus,” Elena snaps. “It’s not some big mystery you have to get to the bottom of. Matt was my best friend. I loved him, I trusted him, and I wanted to have sex with him.” 

Immediately, she can see that her explanation does not please him. And yet… there is a spark there, a terrible spark, in the way the firelight shines in his eyes. 

“I see now that I’ve been missing a critical element,” Klaus murmurs. “It occurs to me, suddenly, that you _are_ unusually trusting—look at how blindly you went to your death last year, trusting only on dear Elijah to save you, or how shocked you were tonight when I had Rebekah fetch Matt for me—Katerina had never been so trusting, nor was the dead girl whose face you wear.” He’s studying her like she really _might_ be something new, and he’s only just realizing it. “How fascinating.” 

Her heart slams against her ribs. She wishes she could hide from that predatory regard. Her skin feels on fire everywhere he touches her.

“I think we may be finished here, for tonight,” he tells her. Abruptly, he pulls back and looks over his shoulder. “Stefan? Could you come here, please?”

Dread floods her as she realizes that the room has gone completely silent. She cuts a quick glance to the back of the room only to see a pile of partially dismembered bodies, necks connecting head to shoulders like fraying thread.

The worst part of is that she’s not nearly so upset as she should be. All she cares about is getting Matt out of this safely. _Somehow_. Just like Stefan had accused her weeks ago, her moral compass has spun wildly out of control.

Stefan obeys, of course. He always obeys. He stops right in front of them. Blood soaks the front of his shirt, staining it nearly black and plastering it to his chest. There’s a feverish look in his eyes that she remembers well from last fall, the first time she’d ever seen him on a blood high.

“Stefan, I have just one more thing I’d like you to do—“ Lazily, he gestures toward Matt. “Drain him.”

At those words, Matt absolutely freezes, but Elena struggles like a hellcat to pull out from Klaus’s embrace. 

“Do relax, Elena, it’ll only take a moment.”

“You gave me your word that you wouldn’t hurt him—“ 

“ _I_ won’t be hurting him. Stefan will be.”

“ _No._ You got what you wanted, you played your little game, now _let him go_.”

“As you recall, what I _want_ is for Stefan to kill every human in this room, with only one notable exception.” He flicks a glance in Matt’s direction. “I’m afraid that you’re not it,” he tells him with false sympathy.

During all of this, Stefan had been watching them all intently, gaze jumping between Matt and Klaus. He cuts his eyes over to Elena when he speaks. “Is this necessary, Klaus?” 

Klaus’s grip around her shoulders tightens for just a second—the only sign that he’s unhappy with Stefan’s response. “Not all necessary, no, though, it does bring up an interesting opportunity to prove yourself, Stefan. Who are you more loyal to? If the answer is Elena, then by all means, spare the boy. Repay the _trust_ she has apparently placed in you. But if the answer is me… Well, you know your choice then.”

Elena holds Stefan’s eyes, willing everything into the look passing between them to make him understand. “ _Please_ , Stefan. You don’t have to do this. _Please_.”

“No, I do.” He tears his eyes from her and gives Klaus the nod.

Klaus’s smile raises the hair on the back of her neck. “Any last words, then, Mr. Donovan?”

Matt stands, and squares his shoulders. He looks like a man, suddenly to her, the boy he had been scoured away by turbulent waters. “Yeah, I do. Elena—I don’t want you to feel guilty. About anything. Whatever happens…” He clenches his fist, like he wants to say more.

Elena nods. “I understand, Matt.” She doesn’t have to feign the tears that trail down her cheeks. So many tears, for so many dead loved ones. At some point, she thinks she would stop crying.

And then it happens. Stefan snatches Matt off his feet and tears into his throat. His fang nicks the artery, and the blood spurts from Matt’s neck like a fountain, spilling his life onto the parlor floor in moments. Klaus holds onto her while her childhood sweetheart dies right in front of her, murdered by her one true love, a piece of theater he had arranged especially for her. Stefan drops the body when he’s finished. It sounds just like every other body had. 

When it’s done, Klaus jumps up and claps Stefan on the shoulder. “That was a bit of fun, eh, Ripper?” There’s a genuine smile on that angelic face, real affection for Stefan after what he had done. 

Free at last, Elena hurtles onto the floor and crawls over to Matt’s corpse. His blood coats her bare legs, but she doesn’t care as she pulls him toward her as best as she can. The tears fall freely now, a never ending river that blinds her as she clutches Matt’s rapidly cooling hand to her chest.

From where she sits on the floor, she can see Klaus pulling Stefan and Rebekah from the room with him. Klaus doesn’t even bother to say anything to her before he leaves. None of them do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She sits with his body for hours.

For a little while, she hopes that Tyler will come in and sit with her. He had loved Matt too. She knows he did. 

He never shows up, and his absence only makes the wound of his earlier abandonment cut deeper.

 

 

 

 

 

 

By the distant tolling of the grandfather clock in the hall, Elena knows it’s nearly four a.m. when Stefan quietly steps back into the room. He eases the doors shut behind him with a soft snick. 

Elena’s eyes burn from staring at Matt’s too pale face, and her hand is cramped from squeezing onto his for so many hours. She hasn’t moved from her vigil. Her legs are sticky with blood, and her whole body aches.

When she looks up at Stefan, though, she sees that he is not much better for wear than she is. Most of the blood has been cleaned off of him, but there’s something distinctly tousled about him, in a viscerally familiar way that tugs on the edges of her mind. Though he doesn’t have any dark circles or other human tell-tale signs about him, there is something distinctly exhausted in his manner.

He kneels down next to her. Slowly, he untwines her fingers from around Matt’s hand. “I’m here to help you bury him,” he tells her softly, pointedly. “Are you coming with me?” He nods when he speaks, waiting for her to agree.

Elena responds how she always does in times like these. She straightens up, raises her chin, and tells him _Yes_.

Stefan lifts Matt like he weighs nothing at all. The image of him snatching Matt off of his feet to devour him flits through her mind, but she quashes the thought with a vengeance. She can’t think about that right now. What’s done is done, and she can’t linger on the past when there is so much else she must focus on.

He leads her outside, to the line of woods at the edge of the property. Elena’s never been so far from the house since she left. It’s a sign of how serious the situation is that Stefan is allowing her out like this. They are absolutely silent while they travel. Some things are easier if others don’t know they’re doing them. 

Skulking around on secret missions in the woods. Something she and Stefan have ample practice in.

It’s only once they actually break past the line of trees that she dares speak again. “How long do you think we have until Klaus comes looking for one of us?” she whispers, voice pitched as low and quiet as she can go.

“Time enough, I think.” Stefan’s voice is like leaves rustling in the wind—barely more than a sigh.

“What took you so long? I was so worried that we’d run out of time before you came back.”

“I had to entertain Klaus. He won’t miss me for a little longer yet, though. 

Elena nods and takes a deep breath.

Stefan eases Matt’s body onto the ground, and props him against a tree. He studies the ring on Matt’s finger. “How much longer do you think, before he wakes up?”

She shrugs. “Soon. It was never more than a few hours for Ric.” The moon casts a silver shadow over everything, and makes the dark parts of the woods seem all the deeper. They wait in silence for several more minutes before Elena asks the question that had been on her mind since she first noticed the ring on Matt’s hand. “Why do you think he’s wearing this?” she asks. “Do you think… Do you think something happened to either Alaric or…” Her heart turns over in her chest. “Or Jeremy?” she finishes almost silently.

Stefan shakes his head. “It’s not worth wondering, Elena. You’ll only make yourself sick.” He says it like he knows what she feels, and of course, she realizes, he _does_ know. He too has a brother he cannot watch over. 

Perhaps fifteen more minutes pass before Matt convulses back into life. Relief knifes through Elena, sharp and clear. She throws herself into his arms, and he barely has a moment to catch his bearings before he must wrap his arms around her.

“Where are we?” Matt asks after a minute. “How long was I gone?”

“Nearly five hours. You’re back though, and that’s all that matters.”

He looks at Stefan and rubs at his throat. “Thanks for not dismembering me when you killed me.” 

Stefan gives him a nod, the closest he’ll come to saying _you’re welcome_. 

“Matt, I have something I have to ask,” Elena cuts in. “Why do you have the ring? Is everyone… okay?” _Is my brother alive?_

“Oh, no, everyone fine!” Matt’s smile eases her immediately. It always has. “Just, uh, Alaric was having some trouble with his ring. We think it might be a side effect from dying too many times with it on, or something. So he gave me his to hold on to, at least until we get things figured out.” Matt pauses, as though to contemplate what would have happened tonight if Alaric hadn’t loaned him the ring.

“Is Jeremy having these side effects?”

“No, but he hasn’t died so often.”

Elena wants to ask more questions, is desperate to hear more about everyone, but Matt derails her from asking anything more.

“So what’s the plan?” Matt asks. “How do we get out?” 

Here, Elena and Stefan both pause. 

“Matt,” Elena murmurs, “ _We_ don’t. But you do.” 

“No. No. You can’t make me leave without you.”

She reaches out and takes hold of his hand. “You’re right. I can’t.” She’d held on to his hand earlier tonight like she would hold on forever. She makes a promise to herself to hold onto Matt, and everyone else, forever in her heart, because she knows she will never hold this hand in hers again. She embeds the memory of this indelibly into her mind, so that she can live on it later. “But Stefan can.” She lets go of Matt’s hand and steps away from him.

Stefan steps in to fill her place immediately, and locks eyes with Matt. His compulsion is very, very strong now that he is on a diet of human blood. She can remember a time when his compulsions were weak and tricky things, and has an odd moment of gratitude that this one will stick. 

“You’re going to head north and west, until you hit the old highway,” Stefan instructs him. “Follow that road into town, and take the bus home to Mystic Falls. You won’t contact anyone in Mystic Falls until you return. When you get back, you won’t remember any of this has occurred. You won’t remember coming here, you won’t remember Klaus or me, and you most especially won’t remember Elena. When everyone asks you where you were, you’re going to say that your mother called you out of the blue with an emergency, and you had to bail her out of trouble. Now go.”

Matt turns around without saying goodbye to her. That’s alright. It’s better this way, without having to worry that her loved ones will come looking for her where they might only find death.

Once Matt has disappeared from sight, Stefan leads her back into the house. She’s shivering, teeth chattering, by the time they start to head back. Stefan offers her his coat, and she takes it and burrows into the warmth of it.  

“Would you have done it if he hadn’t been wearing the ring?” she asks him.

Stefan glances at her from the corner of his eye. “Isn’t it enough that I did it _because_ he was wearing the ring?”

Like a river cutting stone, she thinks. One day, she is going to wear him down.

If Klaus does not reduce him to rubble first.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you to everyone who has commented, your reviews really make my day and keep me writing, even when I write myself into messes like in this chapter :) If you're enjoying, please leave a review. Also, PSA, I'm going to changing the rating of this fic to M sometime in the near future. xoxo


	11. Eleven

 

 

 

 

 

 

They actually get away with it.

All through the next day, Elena expects Klaus to discover somehow that she and Stefan had spirited Matt away, alive and well. Deep in her gut, she knows that his vengeance upon them if he were to discover Stefan’s betrayal would be a terrible thing to behold.

She had risked it anyway, though. She would risk anything for someone she loves.

Klaus never comes round to have it out with her, and at breakfast, lunch, and dinner, Stefan arrives right on time with her meals. She raises her eyebrows when he comes in at the end of the day, asking silently, _Anything?_

He shakes his head _no._

She cannot bring herself to speak to him about much of anything at all. Small-talk seems next to impossible after the charade they managed last night. She feels exhausted, like her bones will snap from the effort of holding her back straight and her head up high. 

When Stefan leans over her to clear her dinner tray away, the back of his hand accidentally grazes the top of her thigh. The touch sends the sense memory of Klaus’s hands on her shooting through her. She tamps down on the feeling that stirs in the pit of her stomach, tells herself it’s because of _Stefan’s_ touch.

He pauses and locks eyes with her for a long moment, but doesn’t say anything. They can’t risk to explore those things—those feelings between them that stir right below the surface—where anyone could overhear.

As soon as Stefan leaves, she scrambles down from the bed and pulls her diary from its hiding spot. She does not dare put to page what really happened last night, lest anyone discover her secret, but she does write about how she is feeling. Sorting through her feelings by writing them down has always helped her achieve a clearer sense of herself… And yet, she finds that after last night, she is so muddled she cannot truly sort anything out. Should she be upset with Stefan for killing Matt, or is that forgiven because it is undone? Is it better, or worse, than when Damon killed Jeremy? _(And oh, she had pressed her lips to Damon’s anyway, mingled his tears with hers even after she had sworn to hate him forever.)_ Could she forgive Tyler for turning away from them, when she knows, logically, that staying behind would have been a deadly dangerous proposition for him? She firmly ignores the part of her mind that asks, _And what about Klaus? What about how you responded when Stefan touched you like he had?_ For this problem, the problem that haunts her daily, she takes a page from Scarlett O’Hara: She will think about it tomorrow.

There will be time for all of that tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her dreams that night are more vivid than any she can remember having since she came here.

At first, she dreams that she is back in the piano room with Stefan, pressed side to side, and he traces his fingers up the side of her leg, circling over the curve of her inner thigh as he kisses her, the echoes of their duet still ringing in her ears. But when she pulls back, it’s not Stefan kissing her at all, it’s Klaus, that red mouth too close to hers, full of sharp teeth that prick her when he kisses her, that consume her until all she can taste is her own blood in her mouth, and all she can feel are his fingers on her bare skin, tracing, tracing, burning, _burning_ —

When she awakens, she could swear that there is someone standing at the foot of her bed, a bit of darkness deeper than all the rest.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Another day goes by before Tyler seeks her out.

She turns a corner, heading toward her room, and finds him hanging around by her door. The sight of him _waiting_ for her sends her into a panic. What what _what_ would she do if Klaus caught him here?

Immediately she runs up to him and grabs him by the arm, pulling him away from her room. _“What are you doing here?”_ she hisses at him under her breath.

Tyler looks around them and then drags her behind a closed door, which he shuts firmly behind him. He’s pulled her into another guest room. Dust motes float through a bar of white winter sunlight filtering through the window.

He takes one long look at her, at the accusation she can’t keep out of her eyes, and breaks away from her so fast she sways off balance. Violently, he scrubs his hands through his hair. Digs the heels of his palms into his eyes and takes great, heaving breaths that rattle his whole body. She realizes that he’s crying.

It strikes her that he has no idea that Matt is alive.

How can she be angry at him now? She has never been able to endure others’ grief well. Her resolve crumbles, and she goes to him, taking him into her arms and pulling him against her breast. She can feel his wet tears in the crook of her neck.

At the same time, the part of her that _is_ a little cruel decides to let him cry it out before she tells him. A little revenge for his leaving her to go through all of that alone.

Some time passes before Tyler asks at last, “Where did you bury him?” His voice is so much quieter and steadier than she would have expected. She realizes that he has stopped crying ages ago, and that he now holds her as much as she holds him. At some point he’s tucked her head under his chin, and clasped her tightly to him.

“Why did you leave last night?” she asks instead of answering his question. She can hear his heart beating sure and steady under her ear.

“I had to.” 

“Why didn’t you come to me, afterward?”

“He made me stay away.” In the rhythm of his heart and the timber of his voice she can hear everything left unspoken. The threat that must have hung implicit between the two wolves.

Elena nods. Feels within her a nearly limitless capacity for forgiveness. Tyler is many things, but perhaps Klaus is right, perhaps his courage sometimes fails him. It’s a shortcoming she understands all too well.

She leans up on her tiptoes and brushes the words against the shell of his ear, too afraid to voice them aloud. _Matt’s alive._

Tyler pulls back and stares at her through narrowed eyes. _What?_ he mouths.

Elena holds up her hand and taps her ring finger.

Understanding dawns in Tyler’s eyes. A fierce joy shines in him.

Before she can stop him he’s got his arms around her, picking her up in a swinging embrace and laughing like a lunatic, and then she’s laughing too, laughing so hard she thinks she’s going to be sick, spinning so fast she can almost imagine that she’s carefree.

They sneak down to Tyler’s room, and it’s there that Elena uses Tyler’s vine charcoal to hastily write out her explanation of that night’s events. He brushes the paper off when he’s finished reading, scattering the charcoal pigment like sand in the wind. Draws right over it so that no one could know the secrets on that page.

Later, Tyler pours her a drink, and after a while, she confides, “I still don’t know how he knew.” 

“Hm?”

“Klaus. He brought Matt here because he was my first. I still don’t know how he knew that.” Elena glances up just in time to see Tyler freeze, an _oh shit_ look on his face.

“He targeted Matt because he took your virginity?” Tyler asks, too casually.

Slowly, Elena places her glass on Tyler’s desk and stands up. “What did you do?” she asks him quietly.

“Nothing!”

“Tyler, _what did you tell him?_ ”

“Nothing, I swear!” 

“Tyler!” By now she’s standing right in front of him, steel in her voice and her spine and a terrible knowing searing within her. But she has to hear the words from him, she can’t let it go—

“ _Okay! I told him he was your first!_ ”

She feels like the floor has fallen out from under her. Her upset at Tyler when he left the room that other terrible night is nothing compared to this. “I don’t understand. Why would you tell him that? You have to have known he was planning something awful.”

“He asked me, okay? I had to tell him.” 

She slaps him. “You _traitor_.”

Tyler tries to reach out for her, but she shoves him away from her, as hard as she can. She darts for the door.

“Elena—“

She turns on him. “ _No_ , Tyler! Matt _died_ because you _stupidly, selfishly_ gave Klaus whatever he wanted to know! Did it never _occur to you_ what he would do with that information?”

He flings his arms out. “ _I had to, Elena!_ I had to!” 

“No, you don’t have to do anything, Tyler. You just do.” She storms out of the room, and doesn’t look back.

It’s a betrayal beyond what she had imagined Tyler was capable. And it hurts, like a gaping wound in her heart, to know that the one ally she was certain she had would so carelessly sell her—sell _Matt_ — out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stefan senses her mood. She can’t confide in him, and yet, they are a team again. He takes her for her walk in the damp cold garden, and although they cannot touch, and although they do not dare speak about anything important, for Rebekah and Klaus are always watching, Elena feels the connection between them, strong and sure and _growing_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Stefan doesn’t show up with breakfast the next morning at the usual time, Elena gets a sinking feeling in her stomach. All of the possibilities start to swirl through her, imaginings of Klaus _discovering_ , _prying, knowing_. What could he do to Stefan if he whimmed it? What would Rebekah do if she found out that Stefan had shown she, Elena, the smallest spark of loyalty?

She throws on her clothes and slips out of her room. At each hall, each staircase, she pauses and listens, trying to determine where everyone is. Finally, she finds them downstairs in that front parlor room she thinks she’ll have nightmares about for the rest of her life.

The room is totally different than it had been three days ago. The satin window sashes have been thrown back, and the pale winter sun floods the room with white morning light. Blood still speckles the expensive fabric of the upholstery, but Matt’s blood has been laboriously scrubbed from the floor boards, and the piano keys gleam a spotless ivory. Clearly, Klaus had had priorities when he instructed his hybrids to clean.

A different sort of horror is unfolding from the one of three nights previous. There’s no swarm of writhing humans, no room full of hungry wolves waiting to satiate their hunger. It’s just Klaus and Stefan, and some dark haired girl who’s already half dead in Stefan’s arms. Stefan’s mouth is latched onto her throat; he hangs onto the girl like a leopard snarling over its prey, holding the jackals off. Klaus leans over him, whispering into his ear—ordering him to drink and drink until he kills the girl, no doubt. The hand on Stefan’s shoulder is a promise and a threat if Stefan does not do exactly as Klaus wants.

She thinks of all of the years and years of self-sacrifice and inhuman effort Stefan had put into controlling his bloodlust, how gentle and naturally empathetic he had been to others. How this monster in front of her had sought out to destroy all of that in Stefan, to obliterate it for his own capricious entertainment. The rage and disgust boil up in her, making her skin flush in fury.

Without thinking of it, Elena starts forward into the room. She’s only made it a step before a strong hand catches her by the shoulder.

Rebekah leans forward to murmur in her ear, voice low and clear as a bell, “Best not to interrupt them when they’re involved like this. They get terribly wrapped up.” 

Elena pauses to glare over her shoulder at Rebekah. She tries to twist free of her, but that beautifully manicured hand’s grip is unrelenting. She could sooner break free of an iron manacle with her bare fingers than throw Rebekah off of her. 

She looks back in time to see the girl’s head fall and roll away from the body still clasped in Stefan’s arms. Her gorge rises as the head rolls toward the fireplace before thumping dully against the mantle and coming to a rest. 

Klaus finally looks up and raises his brows when he spots Elena. “Didn’t expect to see you down so early, sweetheart.”

“I wasn’t aware I had to keep curfew hours.”

Klaus shrugs and turns back to Stefan. Whatever he says to him is too soft for her to hear, but she feels like she gets the gist of it from the simmering look Stefan gives Klaus, the curl of his lip. It’s the monster in Stefan that Klaus likes best, the very part of himself that Stefan likes least. How many scenarios just like this have played out when she wasn’t around? An image of Damon’s secret research, trailing Stefan and Klaus through the states, flits through her mind. How many people has Klaus forced Stefan to murder, in just this manner? How much must that have torn him apart before he switched his humanity off?

She looks back at Rebekah. “Klaus?” she calls, voice steady and calm. “Will you ask your sister to unhand me? She’s pinching a nerve in my neck.”

Just like that, she has Klaus’s attention. He strides over to them and doesn’t even need to speak for Rebekah to follow his order and release her. Rebekah does this with an audible huff and a roll of her eyes—Rebekah never likes to follow anyone’s instructions at all without making it clear that she doesn’t _want_ to—but she does it just the same.

Elena slips out the door as soon as she is free. She can feel three pairs of eyes on her as she marches back up the stairs, slowly and deliberately, but she doesn’t turn back, and she doesn’t let them see how they affect her. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She’s in the library reading. She’d come in here after finding it too hard to sleep, having simply thrown a pullover sweater over her pajamas. The fireplace had been lit when she arrived, the flames dancing yellow-orange in the grate, and she is having remarkable trouble focusing. Her eyes retrace the same words again and again, without deriving any meaning.

She senses him before she sees him. That niggling awareness of him that she has developed is something she would rather not linger on. All too easily he has become the center of her universe, the golden thread she follows to find her way out of the labyrinth he has placed her in. 

The firelight catches the gold in his hair, the perpetually raging storm in his blue eyes. When he sits down next to her and throws his arm over the back of the sofa behind her head, she finds herself too transfixed by him to protest his closeness.

“What game are you playing?” she asks him, somewhat recklessly.

He’s tipped his head back and closed his eyes, exposing his throat to her. Only his lips move when he tells her, “Everything’s a game after a thousand years, dearheart. You’ll have to be more specific.” He could be a statue, she thinks. Only something truly dead could hold so still.

“With Stefan, then. Let’s start there. Why make him murder all of those people? You’re torturing him.”

“You’re mixed up. I’m not torturing him, I’m taking care of him. A vampire has very particular needs. Stefan has a habit of denying himself those needs, so I make a habit of intervening on his behalf.” Klaus says it all so reasonably, so definitively, that she’s tempted to just let it be.

“You’re forcing him.” 

“I’m encouraging him. It’s very different. I haven’t asked Stefan to do anything he doesn’t want to do.” 

“What about me, then?”

Klaus cracks open his eyes. “What about you?” His voice is very low. It’s almost lost in the crackle and hiss of the fire.

“What _was_ that the other night? With Matt? Was it just to hurt me?”

Klaus turns to her. “I was curious.”

“About why I slept with Matt?”

“Surely. But also, I wanted to know where Stefan’s loyalty ultimately runs—with you or with me. And, perhaps, I wanted to know exactly what you would be willing to do to save your first love. Not very much, as it turned out. You hardly put up a fight. I would have expected at least a counter-offer from you.”

Elena’s mouth hangs open. It’s true, she hadn’t offered him anything. She had seen the ring early, and from then on, she had done her best just to make sure Klaus did not see the ace up her sleeve, and to communicate to Stefan what charade they had to play and hope like hell everyone would play their parts without giving up the ruse. It had never occurred to her until now that maybe she had been selfish playing it like that. For not working harder to find another solution, even if it meant… 

All at once she realizes that Klaus is staring at her. He’s always staring at her, it seems, ever since the beginning. Weighing her, studying her, working so, so hard to decipher her. To know her.

“You know, you’re different than I anticipated,” he tells her softly. 

She swallows. His eyes dart down, following the bob of her throat. Slowly, he reaches out and touches his hand to her knee, inching the finger upward, to the place on her thigh he had touched her before.

“How?” she asks. Her voice sounds weak, even to her own ears. 

“I thought you’d be Katerina come-again, but you’re something else.” He draws the tip of his finger over her thigh as he speaks, the barest pressure against her skin, so light she could be imagining it.

His words unlock something inside of her. Some distant, yearning part of her that has always wanted to be seen for only herself, ever since the day she discovered that her face belonged to another. _(Another who, somehow, was more beautiful than her, who was smarter and more graceful and_ more more more _.)_

He must see the way his words affect her—surely there must be some opening in her expression, some sign that _yes_ , she is listening, and she is interested—

“I find I am very interested in _you_ , Elena.” He is very close, so close she can see each golden lash distinctly. His thumb brushes against the inside of her thigh. She cannot break away from that blue gaze. “Elena,” he murmurs again. _Her_ name, not sweetheart or darling or _Petrova_ this or _doppelganger_ that. Just _Elena._

There are a thousand warning bells ringing in her mind. A thousand reasons to say _no_ , to pull back and _run_ , run far away.

She ignores them all. It’s like she’s magnetized, drawn into him and unable to break free from this current running between them. Her hand trembles when she reaches for him. His stubble scratches against the inside of her palm. She shivers as she imagines it rubbing against other places.

Her touch galvanizes him. In a heartbeat his free hand is buried in her hair, drawing her forward. Instantaneously she is grasping him by the shoulders, dragging him forward and against her with all of her strength. They meet in the middle, lips and teeth and tongues pressing, pulling, dancing against each other. She’s in his lap, legs wrapped around his waist, without quite knowing how she got there. Klaus’s hand is still pressed to the inside of her thigh, where he’s stroking over the sensitive flesh there. A deep throb pulses between her legs, hot and electric. Mindlessly, she grinds against him, not at all stopping to think about the repercussions of doing this with _Klaus_. 

She breaks the kiss to tear her sweater off over her head. As soon as the sweater is gone Klaus pulls her down closer against him, to where he can access the newly exposed flesh at the top of her breasts.

Neither of them speak, as though they both know that to speak now would be to burst this strange thing between them.

Whatever this is, she doesn’t think she can stop it now that she’s begun it. Everything else is fuzzy, like she can’t think or move or breathe except to touch, to taste, and if she has regrets or second-thoughts she’ll have to worry about them later.

Klaus’s fingers slide up her leg to the apex of her thigh. He presses a finger over her underwear, against the wet line of her sex—It’s almost unbearable how much she wants him in that moment, how much she needs him inside of her.

This is crazy, but she finds that she can’t stop now that she’s started. 

She moans, a sound that is half satisfaction and half beg, and writhes against him. She can feel him smile against the top of her breast, where he has been sucking and kissing her since she lost the sweater. 

Elena buries her fingers in the hair at the back of his neck and tugs back, so that he is forced to look at her. He obliges her, and meets her eyes with pure fire in his gaze.

“What do you want, Elena?” he asks, voice huskier and lower than she’s ever heard it.

“You. I want you.”

The smile he gives her is victorious, deadly, and _God_ , the sexiest thing she’s ever seen. 

When he pulls aside the edge of her underwear and slides a finger into her, he finds her already slick for him. He adds a second finger, and uses his thumb to circle her clit. It’s instinct for her from there, to move against him, to draw him closer for another mind-boggling kiss. The throbbing between her legs is building, the waves of pleasure coming faster and faster, like a storm coming in pushing breakers onto the beach. And when he nips at her lips and kisses his way down from her mouth to her chin to her neck, it’s natural to let him. Natural to tilt her chin back and _allow_ him to sink his teeth into her throat, to bite, to kiss, in this most familiar and intimate of ways, to ride it out while the storm comes in.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Interested in seeing what happens next? Send me a review and let me know your thoughts! And because, also, you are what keeps me writing, and working hard on this. And my inbox is always open on tumblr at livlepretre. 
> 
> Thank you thank you to all of my reviewers. I’ve sent back responses to everyone who’s left a signed review, but I wanted to give a shout out to kristen who always leaves lovely reviews (and I’m sorry, I can’t do a Klaus POV because it’ll reveal too much!), to lana, and to my wonderful guest reviewers. I know some of you think Klaus is pretty irredeemable after the last chapter, but I think that’s half the fun!


	12. Twelve

 

 

 

 

 

Elena’s eyes snap open and she sits straight up in bed when she awakens from the dream. Her whole body pulses, alive and alert. A pool of moonlight illuminates the foot of the bed, but behind that, the shadows pool and linger. _No one is_ there, she tells herself.

With a trembling hand she reaches past the hem of her underwear and touches the tips of her fingers to herself, where she finds herself wet, the lining of her underwear soaked through. Her thighs and her breasts are damp with perspiration, the sticky feeling she has after she’s brought herself off in the dark and quiet of her room. Something she hasn’t felt secure enough to try since the summer.

The dream is still as vivid as when she was in it. She can imagine the touch, the taste, of Klaus’s body as perfectly as if it was a real memory and not some wicked fantasy her subconscious had boiled up just to punish her. Just the thought of Klaus inside of her sends another wave of desire cresting over her.

Uncertainly, she presses her thumb against her clit and slides two fingers inside of herself. She tries to relax against her pillows and imagine Stefan while she does this, but Klaus’s image keeps arising unbidden and soon she gives up. Unwilling to get herself off to thoughts of Klaus, she withdraws and wipes her sticky fingers off on the edge of her blanket.

Maybe she just needs a glass of water. A bit of a walk to calm herself down.

 _Maybe you just want to run into Klaus_ , a voice whispers in the back of her mind. She crushes it. _But curiosity killed the cat._

She throws on a sweater ( _the same green one as in the dream?_ ) and pads out of her room, making for the kitchen. The house is silent all the way to the kitchen, and she begins to suspect that everyone is out. The idea calms her immeasurably. After the past few weeks, having a night to herself would be a welcome relief. It would be like it was in the beginning, back when she had explored the house so much more fearlessly than she has explored it recently.

She doesn’t venture into the basement level, since she knows that is where Klaus quarters his hybrids. She definitely does not care to see Tyler. Instead, she sticks to the upstairs galleries. She ambles down long halls, through empty rooms and disused parlors. 

Suddenly, she pauses down a moonlit hall. There are voices coming from behind a heavy oak door—voices when she had expected everyone was out.

The wind creaks against the glass windows. Outside, skeletal tree branches whip in the wind, sending shadows dancing over the hallway walls. The thick embroidered rug running down the hall does nothing for the chill in the air.

She knows she is not allowed to open any door that is closed, she knows she may regret this, but no one has ever said a word about _listening_ —

There is a moan, low and throaty and it absolutely sends a shiver down her spine. The sensation rolls down her bones, sending waves of hot-cold-hot-cold through her body and leaving her _wanting_ —every physical sensation she has been trying so hard to quash, to bury, over the past hour comes roiling to the surface. Just a touch, anything, after so long, so much loneliness, would be like heaven.

After another moment, she hears a sigh, and a soft, huffing laugh she recognizes. Stefan’s behind that door. Stefan and Rebekah. She should leave, really she should, but something roots her to the spot. Some feeling that this, too, cannot be real.

There’s a long pause. Everything is silent behind the doors, at least as far as she can make out with her all too human ears. But then the wind groans, and so do the floorboards, and there is a crash, the sound of crystal shattering against marble ( _she has learned that sound well_ ), and then Rebekah’s screaming, absolutely _screaming_ , the words indistinguishable in the vampire’s pique.

The door bangs open and then Elena is confronted with Rebekah. She’s naked, save for a silk robe she barely bothers to tie together. Her tousled blonde hair resembles a wild lion’s mane, and a slick of blood slides down her belly and over her hip bone. Rebekah barely takes note of her before she shoves past her, slamming the door so hard that it bounces for a moment, and Elena catches an eyeful.

For just a moment, she sees— something—

_(Stefan and Klaus, Klaus’s hands on Stefan’s shoulders, Stefan’s eyes closed and head tipped back, their bare bodies tangled together, an ivory silk sheet kicked to the foot of the bed—)_

The lock on the door catches shut before she can really make sense of what she has seen.

 _(Except she_ knows _, of course she knows._ )

She can still hear them, behind the closed door.

Eventually Rebekah comes back. The blonde looks her up and down. “You’re still here?” she asks as she slips past her. She doesn’t bother to wait for an answer, as though she’d forgotten that Elena was there as soon as the question fell past her lips.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why should this new discovery shake her so much, she wonders as she leaves. It’s not as though she hadn’t known that Stefan and Rebekah were sexually involved. What should one more rival matter? And yet, this is just one more layer, one more obstacle, and this one an obstacle that, if she is very truthful with herself, intimidates her significantly more than Rebekah ever could. Rebekah is petulant and violent and dangerous if you don’t pay close attention. Klaus is death.

She had meant to return to her room, get back in bed and pretend she hadn’t gone looking where she had been told not to. It would have made things simpler, in some ways, for her old paradigm to remain intact; but of course Klaus has tilted everything on its axis.

It’s hard to judge whether her efforts to pry Stefan free may have all been futile because she didn’t have the complete picture. Or maybe none of this matters, and she can still win him over with charm alone. Still, the idea preys on her. In what ways might she have miscalculated, because she didn’t have the complete picture?  

Without really paying attention, she’s wandered down into the kitchen, where she’s sunk into a wooden chair and laid her face against the cool grain of the scrubbed-down wooden table. For a time, she doesn’t have to think.

Dawn has turned the sky a pale, eerie gray when Stefan comes in and leans against the doorjamb. She knows it’s him without getting up by the weight of his silence.

“You’re not just sleeping with Rebekah, are you?” she asks him, when she finally lifts her head from the table in order to look at him.

Stefan licks his lips. “No.”

She’d known, of course, but actually hearing it—

“Do you have feelings for him too, then?” It’s not quite what she wants to say. She wants to say, _Do you love him? How many people must I share you with?_

“It’s not romantic. Not like it is between Bex and me.”

 _Not like it is between Bex and me._ It’s a better and worse answer than she had been hoping for.

“What is it then, just physical?” She pauses. “Is it consensual?” _Is he using you? Is he using you because of me?_

 _“_ As consensual as anything with Klaus ever is. And no, it’s not just physical. It’s just not about romance, per se.”

When she offers him a blank look, he elaborates. “Klaus likes to be in control. He’s possessive of those he’s close to, and he expresses that physically. He sees me as his brother, someone he wants to be _very_ close to.”

“He’s not fucking his sister though.”

Stefan raises an eyebrow, and all at once she remembers that Rebekah had been in there too.

“ _Really?_ ”

“We’re vampires, Elena. We’re going to live forever.” 

Somehow, this is an element of vampirism that had gone over her head.

“Did you and Damon…?”

“No—but you already know we’ve shared a woman before.”

“And that was when you were human. With Katherine.”

“Then and other times.”

“Stefan, they’re _brother and sister_.”

“Klaus and Rebekah have a history. They work that out in their own way.”

Elena presses her fingers to her temples. And then, because she cannot help herself, and because her dream was _so_ vivid, she asks, “Do you like having sex with him?”

“When he’s in a good mood.”

“And when he’s not?”

Stefan doesn’t answer her.

“How long has this been going on? All summer?” _When she was trying so hard to find him and win him back._

“All summer, all fall, and before then, back in the 20s.” 

_When she thought she needed to rescue him, he was fucking his kidnapper._

How fast he had walked away from her, from _them_ , if it hadn’t even taken him the length of the summer to find someone else.

No, that wasn’t fair. He had already told her how it was.

 _I pretended you were dead last summer. You_ were _dead last summer. I wasn’t ever going to see you again._

“I don’t know what this means,” she confesses.

“It doesn’t mean anything. Nothing’s changed, except you have a bigger picture.” He steps forward and offers her his hand.

 _A_ bigger picture, not _the_ bigger picture.

She puts her hand in his, and watches as his fingers curl around her own.

He’s right in a way; nothing has changed except for her perspective. She may understand Klaus better now, too. Jealous of the ones he loves most—desperate to keep Rebekah and Stefan’s attentions and affections, violently disposed when their eyes wander to each other.

Just the thought of getting caught amidst them makes her feel lightheaded, like her legs won’t hold her steady.

It had always seemed possible to wrest Stefan over from Rebekah, but she has no confidence that she can win him over if Klaus has his eyes on him. 

After all, no one had been able to save her once Klaus set his eyes on _her_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Life continues the monotonous cycle. 

After breakfast, Stefan helps her into her coat for their morning walk. He pauses, her coat half lifted in his hands, and asks, “When did you get that?”

Elena turns to look at him. “Get what?”

Stefan puts her coat down on her bed and reaches for her. His hand hovers just over the juncture at her neck and shoulder. Heat radiates from the palm of his hand. This close, her body cannot tell the difference between this lingering at a distance and a real touch. “This bruise. What’s it from?”

Frowning, Elena heads over to her bathroom mirror and peels her collar back. Sure enough, there’s a bruise that’s formed overnight, a deep blue-black bruise, red-violet around the edges and irregularly shaped. It could be a thumb print. 

Stefan follows her into the bathroom and stands behind her, peering down at the bruise, brows knitted together into a pensive frown. 

“Rebekah must’ve given it to me yesterday,” Elena declares before stepping away from the mirror.

This declaration does nothing to soothe Stefan. “I should’ve interfered.”

As though he could’ve pulled himself together enough for that yesterday.

“It doesn’t matter, don’t worry about it.”

“I have to worry about it.”

“Because of Klaus’s compulsion?”

“You know why.”

Elena purses her lips. “I don’t really know that I do. I mean, would you have stepped in _solely_ because Klaus wanted you to? Or would it have been because you didn’t want Rebekah to hurt me?”

“Bex is the jealous type. She’d pull you apart like a wish-bone.”

“Klaus is the jealous type too." 

He doesn’t deny it. The knowledge of it hangs between them. 

He never does answer her question.

Later, when she is alone, she goes back to the mirror and studies the bruise.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know, a bit cruel, but all I can say is read carefully, and all will be revealed in time. 
> 
> Thank you for everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I appreciate your feedback and comments, they really make my day, and your comments are such wonderful motivation to write and continue working on this story! 
> 
> That being said, please leave me a review if you’re enjoying! Lots more K/E coming up this next chapter, + some reaction…


	13. Thirteen

 

 

 

 

 

The door in front of Elena is cracked open. She’s not supposed to open any closed door ( _she has already learned what comes from prying_ ) but this door isn’t really _closed_ , now is it?

She watches her hand—paler than it used to be, a kind of vampiric whiteness to it—as it pushes the door open. There’s a fire laid, white flames leaping high and crackling, but it gives no heat. The heavy silk drapes, glinting faintly in the firelight, are drawn closed, blocking out any sense of what time it is within the confines of this room.

“Lovely of you to join us.”

Elena spins. There, sitting naked at the foot of the bed, is Klaus. Behind him, twined up by the headboard, she spots Rebekah and Stefan. Her long smooth legs are wrapped around his waist, their hand entangled, but they are both staring at her with dark, hungry eyes.

“I didn’t mean—“ She turns and looks for the door.

In a burst of inhuman speed Klaus moves to block her exit. He stands very close to her. If she reached out, just a couple of inches, she could press her hand to his heart. 

“A bit too early to leave, love, don’t you think?” he asks her quietly, head cocked to the side.

“I’m not supposed to be here.” She can barely speak around the growing lump in her throat.

“Nonsense. This is exactly where you’re supposed to be.” He holds his hand out to her. 

She hesitates only a moment before she takes it, and allows him to lead her over to the bed.

Klaus lays her out on the bed under him, and even though there’s a small part of her screaming that _this isn’t right_ , she lets him. He covers her immediately, large hands pinning her by the wrists, hips sinking against hers, his bare body lining up against hers exquisitely. Even through her clothes, she can feel him half-hard, pressed against her center. He rocks against her, just a little bit, and the feeling sends a jolt of pure pleasure through her, stronger and swifter than she would have imagined.

But when she rolls her head back against the mattress, her eyes lock with Stefan and Rebekah. They’ve moved, without her noticing, and now stand pressed against the far wall, half-submerged in shadows. They look like wraiths in the flashing light. 

Klaus feels her tense beneath him. He sucks a line of kisses that are almost really bites up the line of her exposed throat. “Don’t mind them,” he whispers darkly in her ear. “They won’t interfere with us.” He hitches her legs around his hips while he murmurs against her throat, each word punctuated by a thrusting grind against her. “I won’t allow anyone to interfere with us.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Elena wakes up with her heart slamming against her breastbone.

She gathers her blankets around her into a crude cocoon and shuts her eyes tightly. Images of Klaus _doing things_ to her dance against her eyelids.

_No_ , she tells herself firmly. She _will not_ persist in these bizarre fantasies.

She knows herself to have a few talents, and a few strengths. Like the women who came before her, she has an implacable will. With that comes the ability to steel herself, to do things that would make others tremble and fail. She knows she also has the capacity for both kindness and cruelty, and that she cannot always tell the two apart as easily as she should. She is also stubborn, sly, and capable. She has a nearly boundless capacity for self-deception. If she wants to, she could probably ignore this until it went away.

If only ignoring Klaus had ever, ever worked.

 

 

 

 

 

Three times, she sees Tyler hanging around downstairs that day. He’s not doing anything particular or anything conspicuous, he’s just _there_ where he’s sure she will see him waiting. He would never approach her where others could see, but it’s a signal that she can go to him, and they can steal a few hours together. It’s an attempt to reach out to her.

She ignores him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes Stefan doesn’t walk with her on her daily go-around the gardens, instead hanging back and watching while she wanders off by herself. Usually this happens on the days when Rebekah’s overseeing gaze is especially sharp, and the air is thick with the charge of unshed violence. It’s better, under those circumstances, for Stefan to keep as much distance as Klaus’s compulsion will allow.

The garden is at the end of its bloom. A few bright stragglers remain, heads hanging heavy with November rain, but for every flower there is a muddy patch of bare stems and dead leaves. The temperature has dropped into the low forties, too warm to snow but cold enough for the drizzling rain to frost her breath and settle ice into her bones. 

Elena bundles the coat around her and pretends she can’t feel the eyes on the back of her head. She’s looking at her own feet squishing over the wet grass and soggy pockets of earth, arms crossed under her breasts and hands stuck in her underarms to keep her fingers warm, when someone catches her by the elbow and spins her around.

She stares up into a pair of blue eyes, the last ones she wants to see. The well of emotions when she looks at him— _envy, desire, despair—_ almost overwhelms her in that first instant. She fights to keep these warring emotions off of her face, to wear a mask that would protect her from this fevered onslaught. _(An onslaught she realizes that Klaus must go through every day—to desire the object of your envy, to feel jealous of every shred of affection, physical or otherwise—)_

“Thought I’d escort you this morning, seeing as dear Stefan is too fearful of my darling sister’s wrath to venture nearer,” he tells her cheerfully.

Elena can’t help but read into his word choice, now that she knows how things really stand amongst the three of them. _Dear darling sweetheart love mine mine mine._ Everything she has ever wanted he has already taken from her. She thought, perhaps, she might still have someone to love, or at least a friend, but her lover had been his before she’d even been born, and he’d shown her how weak the bonds of loyalty really ran between Tyler and her. Envy. Desire. Despair.

She dares to glance over her shoulder, to where Stefan is watching them in the distance. She wonders what he is feeling right now, cannot read anything other than a certain wariness on his still face. _(There will always be a part of her absolutely certain that he loves her, the knowledge irrevocably engraved into her bones. There will also always be a part of her that knows that love can—will—consume and destroy in the end, especially when it is spread among as many people as it is right now. It is dangerous to love so many, though her heart—and maybe everyone else’s, too—always yearns for more. That knowledge, she has come to realize, is inherited, not learned.)_

“It’s been a while since we’ve really had a heart-to-heart,” he continues, oblivious to her agitated inner monologue, as he draws her hand into the crook of his elbow and covers it with his own. They make a slow circuit of the grounds together. Each step she does not succumb to the tumult inside of her is a triumph.

_Heart-to-heart_. They’d been pressed just like that, heart-to-heart, flush against each other, in _several_ of her recent dreams. The stray thought sticks and vibrates within her. She blushes and he notices.

“The last time we had a chat you killed my ex,” she tells him to cover her reaction to him.

“And by the way, you’re taking that better than I thought you would.” 

Elena stumbles and he has to pull her up lest she fall. 

“Careful now,” he murmurs, low voice so like it had been in her dreams.

It’s a terribly distracting thing, to be dancing this fine line with Klaus and all the while to have images of him under her, over her, flitting through her mind. She cannot help but be aware of him in ways she had not been alert to before—the smell of him, the weight of his hand over hers, the heat of his skin and of his eyes.

“If you wouldn’t make such a _habit_ of murdering my loved ones, maybe you’d get a more satisfying reaction out of me when you do.” She spits the words through clenched teeth. 

“You’re implying you’ve grown immune, sweetheart? You had a greater reaction when I killed that girl in front of you a while back than you did to your first lover’s death the other day.” He doesn’t turn to her when he speaks, but watches her out of the corner of her eye. It’s a familiar ploy from him—making it seem like he’s not invested in her answer, but furtively watching her every reaction. He has _always_ watched her. 

Elena pulls her hand away from him and straightens her coat. He lets her. When she is satisfied that she looks properly put together, she tips her head back so she can look him dead in the eye and she tells him, certainty and finality ringing in her voice, “I was an expert in grief before I ever knew you even existed. I learned what it was to live with it like it was my closest friend, and to survive it. I feel grief—here—” She presses her hand to her chest, where the ache of death lingers, but she is so used to the fissuring pressure that she doesn’t even notice it most days, simply lives with it. “I carry it with me always. But I can’t live my life in perpetual mourning. I can’t.”

“Very eloquent.” He shrugs her off, brushing her speech aside like a cobweb. “I suppose you hardly responded at all when you walked in on brunch the other day.”

Brunch. The head, rolling and rolling and rolling until it hit the fireplace with a dull _thud._

She laughs, humorlessly. The sharp, glassy sound, so like Katherine’s laugh, startles her, and she cuts herself off abruptly. “I’d go mad if I let myself, Klaus.”

He nods and purses his lips. “Ever a cruel little creature, aren’t you? It’s that cruel streak, that selfish streak, that allows you to adapt to this. I’ve seen other girls crumble over less.”

“It’s not cruelty—“ _Oh but it is it is it is_

“Come now, don’t be modest. It’s what I like about you best. I think I’d have just compelled you like a doll long ago if you didn’t have it.” He takes her hand back in his and pauses. “I think we’d best find you some gloves for the winter. Your hands are ice cold.”

How fast he could turn from the most serious topics to the least.

He could turn on her, or Stefan, just as quickly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next time she ventures out for a walk, she slips in a puddle of blood by the front door and lands painfully on the pavers outside before anyone thinks to catch her.

It’s a bright, gray day outside, and Klaus and Rebekah are drinking mimosas on the iron lawn-chairs by the Japanese Maple. There’s a discarded game of croquet, mallets abandoned on the lawn, and two dead boys sitting propped by the door. They hadn’t been properly drained, just bitten and left to bleed out in the walk way. There are two more boys sitting over by Klaus and Rebekah—about her age, maybe, dressed like they may have been on their way to church when they were snatched up--

Carefully, Elena picks herself up and wipes uselessly at the cloying blood that has soaked into her sweater and jeans. Her palms slide against the fabric, too slick and wet to be much use in cleaning the blood off of her hands.

Stefan snatches at her hand, suddenly, nearly knocking her off balance again, except he snakes an arm around her waist and reels her in close to him, before sucking her fingers into his mouth. His tongue swirls over her as he cleans the blood from her. He moves to the palm of her hand, and then her wrist, moving on as soon as he laps the last of the blood from each part of her. _He’s going into a frenzy_ , she thinks faintly.

“Stefan,” she whispers, trying to pull free. He has her in an iron grip. She’s not even sure he can hear her over the din of his rising blood lust. “Stefan.”  

He kneels in front of her and peels back her sweater, to lap at the blood that’s soaked through the material and paints her belly. She can feel his fangs graze her skin.

“That’s enough, now, Stefan,” Klaus calls. He’s there and pushing Stefan off of her in the blink of an eye, a restraining hand on Stefan’s shoulder as he looks her up and down. “Aren’t we a picture?” he murmurs before guiding Stefan over to where the two boys are patiently waiting. 

Elena trails after them, perversely interested.

Klaus gestures over to them. “Go on, now, Ripper, have a drink straight from the tap.” 

Rebekah finishes her mimosa and pushes one of the boys into Stefan’s arms. Stefan doesn’t even hesitate to bury his fangs in the boy’s neck. Rebekah tips back her head and laughs, her teeth sparkling white in the sun, her voice like a chime.

Klaus stands at Stefan’s shoulder, body pressed close to his as he speaks directly into his ear. Rebekah is there too, leaning forward to lick at the corner of Stefan’s mouth, to catch the stray rivulets of blood that stream down his chin.

It’s so _similar_ to the scene just a few days ago, and yet, knowing what she does, she reads it so very differently. Where before, she saw Klaus as the tormentor, the one forcing Stefan into the despised role of monster, all to amuse and entertain and satisfy some bizarre need to control, she sees now that that isn’t it at all. No—here Klaus is encouraging, cajoling, playing the lover as he gifts Stefan with these meals, these tastes and caresses, what Klaus said Stefan needed but would deprive himself— _no, that was a dream_ —Whatever he’s whispering in Stefan’s ear, it’s not a threat, no, it’s a _seduction—_

It’s so clear, as Stefan finishes the first boy, and Elena is too frozen, too wrapped up, to do anything when they lift the second boy between them and Rebekah and Stefan each bite into him, one from each side of the boy’s neck, and Klaus encourages them both all the while, one hand at Stefan’s shoulder, the other tangled in Rebekah’s blonde hair. The three of them are totally wrapped up in each other, and she is the one standing outside of it. 

True, Klaus might have his moments where he takes an interest in her. Stefan may still love her and Rebekah may even be homicidally envious of her at times, but all of that is separate and apart from what she sees in front of her, this far-reaching entwinement.

_Best not to interrupt them when they’re involved like this. They get terribly wrapped up._

She would only be torn to pieces if she tried to step between them now.

She leaves without waiting to find out how this unfolds and takes a long, hot shower. She takes her time flat ironing her hair, afterward, til it is shiny and straight. It’s easier, when she looks in the mirror and sees just herself, not to dwell on how she didn’t even bother to save either of those boys, how she has stopped even negotiating or _trying_.

She’s the only human in the house. She has to do a better job of remembering that. She has to do a better job of acting like it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her first blood-letting happens three months after her arrival.

Klaus knocks on her door, but doesn’t wait for a response before entering. “And how is my lovely doppelganger this fine morning?”

He’s cheerful—he’s _always_ cheerful these days. Ever since Stefan was so quick to kill Matt for him, it’s like he’s recalibrated, feeling steady now in his favorite’s devotion and loyalty to him ( _in how small and powerless she, Elena, had turned out to be, just a small wave lapping against a huge boat_ ). 

It puts her on edge, but she hides that well. Elena sits up a little straighter in bed, smooths her hair behind her ear, lifts her chin. She glances at the door, where his hand still lingers on the wood. “You’re supposed to wait for me to say ‘come in’.” It’s a petty point—Lord knows he’s already invaded her space plenty of times before—but she’s upset and out-of-sorts and Klaus is at the center of it all.

“No need when I already own the house, love.”

She purses her lips and debates whether it would be better to stay in bed and have to look up at him or whether she should stand tall, but reveal herself ample bare flesh not covered by her pajamas. She shivers as the sense memory of his hand on her thigh rolls through her.  

From the way Klaus’s eyes rove her face and the exposed skin of her neck and shoulder, she decides less skin is better. She pulls the blanket up around her.

He meanders over and sits on the edge of her bed, a satisfied smile on his face.

He stares at her and she stares back.

The early morning sun pours through her window, and gives the room a kind of warm glow. The light catches the gold in Klaus’s hair, makes his eyes seem bluer and his lips redder. He doesn’t look like a monster like this, perched casually beside her, looking perfectly conversational and normal in a gray long sleeved t-shirt and jeans. Damon had that trick too, of coming off like a friendly, regular guy instead of the predator she knew him to be. The fact that Klaus apparently has the same ability and is pulling it out now only sets her more on edge.

_Today isn’t like all of their other visits_ , an instinct inside of her warns. _Today, he wants something in particular._  

“Where’s Stefan?” she asks, her heart beginning to slam against her ribs even though her voice comes out perfectly steady.

Klaus cocks his head and smiles. He can hear her heart of course, but for now he’s polite enough not to mention it to her. 

“I gave Stefan the morning off, thought I’d come in and check up on you myself.” He casts her a knowing look. “Rebekah was happy about it, of course. Can’t say she’s too pleased about how I’ve arranged things between Stefan and you.”

Elena shrugs. “A bit late for second-thoughts, isn’t it? I think the damage is already done.” She tosses her hair behind her shoulders. “Besides, Rebekah’s just being a brat.”  

Klaus’s smile widens at her retort, and she catches a glint of sharp white teeth. “Very true at that.” The smile fades quickly though, and is replaced with a carefully blank face and a neutral tone. “Do be careful though, my dear. Bex is a viper at heart; she’ll bite without a moment’s notice, and I’d be exceptionally displeased were anything to happen to you.”

_Displeased_. Not upset, not aggrieved. Really closer to _inconvenienced_ than anything else. 

Elena had lived her whole life surrounded by people who loved and cared for her. In the past year, she’d known what it meant for people to literally _die_ for her. Now she has no one in her life like that _(Except—she hoped—no, she was sure—Stefan. And— maybe—no, not Tyler)._

She swallows, and his eyes follow the pulse of her throat. She tries to speak, but finds her throat quite dry. Her voice is like sandpaper when she speaks. It reminds her unpleasantly of Katherine the night she told her her story. That was the first time she’d ever heard of Klaus.

She doesn’t particularly want to pursue this conversation. There’s no point in reflecting on how Rebekah could squash her like a bug, just like how Klaus nearly squashed Katherine flat all of those centuries ago.

“Why are you here?” she finally asks him.

“You’re not enjoying our little chat?” he asks in mock surprise. “I thought it time for another donation. The original batch is running a bit thin, and I thought I’d shore things up before gathering new recruits.” 

Elena scoots as far away from him as possible and pulls the covers up to her neck. “No, no, no. I’ve given blood before, and I _know_ it’s not supposed to be this often.”

Klaus shrugs. He holds up his fingers, pinched half an inch apart. “It’s just a small amount. Nothing to worry over. And really, the suggestion is every _two_ months, and it’s already been three. Really, I gave you plenty of time to adjust to your new surroundings before I asked anything of you.”

God, the arrogance of this man.

“That’s it then, isn’t it? You’ll be coming in here, asking-but-really-telling-me that it’s time for another donation, and I’ll have no choice but to say yes.”

“No need to sound so glum about it. You’re hardly being kept in destitution.”

No, she’s really not, at least not in a literal sense, although, the feather pillows and green lawns _cannot_ make up for the loneliness that has crept into her bones, for the horrors she is learning to accept without batting an eyelash. For the humanity and compassion she feels slipping through her fingers with every defeat, and the sacrifices tallying up with every pyrrhic victory until she can no longer determine if it was worth it. 

She supposes she expected this—she’s the bloodbank, and what are banks for if not for withdrawing?

In so many ways, it’s what she’s been reduced to. Or at least, it’s certainly what Rebekah would like her to be. 

No friends, no family, only a journal to keep her company, her own thoughts endlessly reflected back at her. 

She has no future, only the interminable present.

This is a battle she is going to lose no matter what. The calculative part of herself knows this, does the math, and decides it will be better to cooperate now, and strike back later. 

Slowly, she pulls the quilt from her shoulders and holds her arm out for Klaus to take. She does not shake, even a little bit.

“Fine. You win.”

“There’s my good girl,” Klaus murmurs as his fingers close around her wrist. He turns her hand, so the palm faces up, and strokes a finger down the veins, up her arm, all the way to the crook of her forearm. “Was it so hard to surrender?”

She doesn’t answer him, every bit of her focused instead on ignoring the way his fingers trail over her skin.

True to his word, Klaus does not take very much blood. Just a few vials. He’s very careful as he cleans her arm, ties the tourniquet, and inserts the needle into the soft flesh of her arm not to hurt her. It’s just the barest prick of the needle, nothing at all like the last time she gave blood, when Klaus had ordered Stefan to tear her throat out first.

Dully, Elena wonders if it was Klaus who tore Stefan off of her in the end, when he discovered that he needed her after all to build his army.

When Klaus finishes, he runs his thumb over the tiny little hole he’s left in her flesh. A dot of blood wells up and beads against her too pale skin. He swipes his thumb over it and smears blood along the seam of her elbow. For a moment, Elena thinks he’s going to put that thumb in his mouth and lick it clean—he’s done it before—except he doesn’t.

At the door, he pockets the blood vials and produces a box of orange juice. He tosses it to her, and she catches it without thinking. “Drink up, sweetheart. I want you fighting fit when I return.”

Caught off guard, Elena fumbles the juice. “You’re leaving then?”

“Just for a little while. Don’t worry. You’ll hardly have time to miss me.” He winks at her before turning on the spot and shutting the door behind him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She finds Tyler waiting for her again outside of her room, but she won’t have any of it this time. 

“Go away, Tyler,” she tells him without looking at him. 

“Elena, wait.” 

“No, Tyler, I’m serious, go away.”

“Elena, I have to make this right before I leave—“

She finally looks up at him. “What are you talking about?” 

“I’m going, with Klaus. To find new werewolf packs to turn.”

The news hits her hard. The possibilities of what could happen race through her mind—they could run into trouble. Tyler could upset Klaus, or lose a fight with a werewolf, or run into a vampire hunter, or _any number of things_. He might die. Klaus might set him loose. She may never see him again. 

Elena stares at him for a moment before realizing her mouth is hanging open. She must look like a deer in the headlights. Frustrated with herself for forgetting what Tyler did for even a moment, she snaps her mouth shut and crosses her arms under her breasts. “So? Go on then.”

“Elena—“

“I don’t care to hear it, Tyler. Go have fun on your killer hybrid road trip. Goodbye, Tyler.”

She steps into her room and slams the door shut. For a little while, she can hear Tyler lingering outside her doorway, shifting from foot to foot like he would like to knock, but eventually he leaves, like she knew that he would, and she is left alone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Klaus makes ready to leave by mid-morning the next day. He has a troop of hybrids assembled, all looking anxious and excited to leave, all except for Tyler, who keeps casting her sad dark-eyed looks. 

Just like an old-fashioned lord of the castle, he has the whole household standing outside to see him off, Elena included. He claps Stefan on the shoulder and chucks Rebekah on the chin, speaking to lowly to each for Elena to overhear from where she huddles out of the wind as far away from the pair as she can. She was absolutely revolted, though maybe not surprised, to discover that Rebekah would be staying behind to help Stefan oversee her well-being, or perhaps, more accurately, to make certain that she, Elena, did nothing to steal his affections away from her or her brother. 

After he finishes with Stefan and Rebekah, Klaus strides over to her for a final goodbye.

“I’ve warned Rebekah against harming you, and reiterated to Stefan my command to care for you, but my orders won’t hold so much sway while I am gone as they do when I am in residence. I trust that you’ll do nothing to tempt my sister’s wrath, or to make Stefan’s job too vexing.”

She nods, slowly, to show that she has heard him, but makes no other response. He clearly does not expect her to. At any rate, her answer satisfies him, and he turns to leave with only a single glance back.

Stefan heads back inside, but Rebekah prowls over to her, a glint of sharp curiosity in her eyes.

“What did you do to Lockwood?” she asks. “He kept looking at you like a kicked puppy.”

Elena glares at her. “That’s none of your business.”

“Oh, but darling, _everything_ is my business now that Nick is gone. Especially if it makes you the least little bit unhappy.” She grabs Elena by the chin and stares deeply into her eyes. When she speaks, Elena cannot help but fall into those pale blue eyes. “What’s going on between you and Lockwood, hm?”

She can’t resist answering, for all of her desire to. “He told Klaus about Matt, and he didn’t even try to save Matt that night.” She thanks God that Rebekah did not ask her anything that would cause her to reveal anything incriminating.

“And? Why is _he_ upset?”

“He tried to apologize, but I wouldn’t let him.”

Rebekah bursts out laughing, releasing her from the compulsion. “Oh, you stupid bint. This is too rich.”

“Yeah yeah, I know, toying with me is _so_ funny.”

“Oh, you don’t _understand_. Tyler Lockwood had no choice but to answer Nick’s questions, no choice but to leave when Nick told him to leave, and stay away when Nick told him to stay away.”

At Elena’s blank look, Rebekah elaborates, “Lockwood is sired to Nick. All of the hybrids are.”

“Sired? What does that mean?”

“Sometimes, when a vampire is made, he forms a kind of bond to his maker. An unbreakable bond. What it amounts to is that whatever Nick tells Tyler to do, Tyler _has_ to do. He has no choice. He’s probably not even aware of what he’s doing.”

The horror of what Rebekah tells her washes over her as a million implications and odd statements that she hadn’t given a second thought to start to add up.

_He’s made it clear the hybrids aren’t supposed to approach you._

_While your display of selflessness for your friend here is touching, Tyler, it’s a bit hollow seeing as you already do anything and everything I ask you to._

_I don’t understand. Why would you tell him that? You have to have known he was planning something awful._

_He asked me, okay?_ I had to tell him.

“I didn’t know,” Elena says. “How could I have known?”

Rebekah laughs at her. “Doesn’t change a thing, now does it? Rather cold of you to turn him out over something he couldn’t help.”

Guilt heavy on her shoulders, Elena races to the end of the drive to where Tyler had disappeared with Klaus, to try to catch one last glimpse of him, but he has already disappeared around the bend.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, for all of you upset at Tyler, he really was sired this entire time and unable to say no to Klaus. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter, the fact that you all are continuing to read means everything to me <3 
> 
> As always, I would love to hear your thoughts on the latest installment. For my American readers, Happy Thanksgiving!


	14. Fourteen

 

 

 

 

 

_If it were my choice, I would want to be with you forever_.

 

 

 

 

November fills Elena with a terrible loneliness.

Klaus takes all of the hybrids with him when he goes, leaving only Stefan and Rebekah in his stead, so that even the everyday, comforting sounds of conversation, laughter and companionship vanish with him.

Worse, Rebekah wastes no time after Klaus’s departure in making the manor her own. Part of that entails brushing Elena aside like a cobweb, making room only for the strictest adherence to Klaus’s direct orders to care for her well-being. The only laughter left in the whole place is Rebekah’s. The sound of it is empty, and for some reason, late at night, it has a mournful power that cause tears to well in Elena’s eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The day after Klaus leaves, Stefan has been alone with Elena in her room for perhaps ten minutes before Rebekah sidles in and closes the door shut behind her. The blonde shakes her long, shiny hair away from her face and peers down her nose at Elena’s dinner. “In my day,” she announces, “We used to throw slop to the pigs and get on with things. We didn’t stay to watch them eat.” 

Deliberately, Elena cuts into her veal and slowly chews the bite. She knows better than to rise to Rebekah’s bait while Klaus is away. Her survival instinct is good for that much, at least. She doesn’t even look at Rebekah.

And yet—there is a part—a _huge_ part—of herself that gnashes its teeth in rage and humiliation at Rebekah’s words, at having Stefan hear them, at being unable to respond to them in kind. For what good would it do to say, _I agree, watching you eat disgusts me_ or _At least I am not a monster_ , when she is not sure those words are even true? What would that recrimination even mean here, with nothing but murderous vampires present to hear them?

_(And then there is the part of her that knows that the sharper Rebekah’s insults, the closer Elena is to cutting her, and that Rebekah is only responding as all cornered beasts do.)_

What might be disappointment flits across Rebekah’s face when Elena fails to react. “Stefan, I don’t know how you can tolerate waiting on the creature four times a day if she is always so little fun.” She holds out both pale white hands to him. “Come on, now, Stefan, let’s go for a picnic.”

“I have my orders,” Stefan tells her. The excuse is starting to sound thin.

Rebekah drops her hands. “It cannot take that long to fatten her up. I’ll expect you momentarily.” She leaves, then, but her presence lingers on throughout the duration of the meal.

Elena tries to avoid Rebekah the next day, but the blonde comes around again at lunch to chivy Stefan from her room.

The time after that, she doesn’t even bother to acknowledge Elena at all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

What this amounts to is that Elena’s meal times with Stefan become short, tense and furtive affairs, both of them all too aware that their time together depends entirely on Rebekah’s jealous whims. Stefan always seems on the point of flight when he is with her, torn between his obligation _(his desire?)_ to care for her and the necessity of returning to Rebekah before long.

Whether through necessity or inevitability, Rebekah always wins out, in the end.

 

 

 

 

 

 

No, what this really amounts to is that Elena has time—endless, endless time—to reflect back on how she has treated Tyler.

In his absence, she thinks of him now more than she ever did when he was here.

How confusing all of this must have been for him.

 _Sire bond._ What was that, anyway? And how was it that she had never even heard of it before?

_(The uncomfortable thought that she knows less about vampires than she thought slithers across her mind.)_

Did Tyler know about the bond? Was he even aware of what he was doing? Aware, yet totally unable to stop himself? She imagined him, locked within the confines of his mind, unable to speak or act in any way that ran contrary to Klaus, a slave in every sense of the word... Or was he truly just blind to it all, capable, perhaps, of feeling guilt in the aftermath, but in the moment, all too eager to serve?

 _(How could she trust him when she didn’t_ know? _)_

 

 

 

 

 

Stefan stops walking with her in the gardens. Rebekah keeps him with her near the open back door, and the two of them watch Elena make her slow circuit around the grounds from the shadows ringing the house. Sometimes, Elena’s eyes meet Stefan’s across the lawn, and she feels that old connection between them drawing tight. Someday, it will snap. She doesn’t know what she will do when it does.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_(How could she trust herself?)_

 

 

 

 

 

 

“What do you know about sire bonds?” she asks Stefan one rainy evening as he hands her her vitamins. She sets them aside, next to her untouched dinner, and waits for him to respond. The steam from the plate presses into her like a wet cloth, making her face damp with sweat.

“Why do you ask?” he asks. He pours her a glass of water and gestures toward her pills.

Elena shakes her head. If she does what Stefan wants her to right away, they may not finish this conversation. At least she knows he’ll play along if he’s still waiting for her to take the vitamins.

“It’s just I’d never heard of them before,” she tells him, folding her arms under her breasts and leaning back against her headboard. It’s her siege position, and Stefan knows it.

“Before…?” He sits down at the edge of her bed, facing away from her. Neither of them bother finishing his sentence. “What do you want to know?” There’s no curiosity in his question, just a steadiness, a willingness to meet hers.  

“Are they real?”

“Yes.”

“Is it like being compelled then?”

“Tyler could probably tell you better than I could.”

She’s silent for a few moments, considering, before she speaks again. “Elijah compelled me once. It was like I was locked inside of my mind, unable to get out, unable to control my own body…. I wonder if it’s like that for Tyler now. Is it like that for you?” It’s how she’s always imagined him— the sweet, loving boyfriend he had been last year locked away and unable to break free of the chains Klaus had wrapped him under. Sometimes, she thought she could see the old Stefan reaching out to her, straining to be free.

“No.”

His answer sinks like a stone within her. There’s no tell, no shift in his expression or body language, but Elena knows him too well. Something deep inside of her, some gut instinct she cannot suppress, tells her that if she presses him, Stefan will tell her a truth neither of them will be able to walk away from. She opens her mouth to demand an elaboration, but they are interrupted by the door banging open.

“Stefan, it’s been an age,” Rebekah declares from the doorway. She flicks a glance over at Elena before grabbing Stefan by the wrist and hauling him from the bedroom. 

Elena pushes her dinner around with her fork for a few minutes, with no real desire to eat after he conversation with Stefan.

Without the hybrids in residence, and with Stefan pre-occupied, there is no one to notice when she takes the full tray down to the kitchen and pitches it, untouched vitamins and all.

It feels like a victory, after all of these forced feedings, just to say to herself, _I am not hungry._

And yet, it is such a hollow victory, compared to everything she once dreamed. 

_(Compared to everything she had once done.)_

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her diary proves to be an immense solace to her, in the way it had been just after her parents had died. She writes in it carefully each day, though she’s not precisely sure of the exact date and has not brought herself to ask Stefan for it.

Once upon a time she had been able to write pages and pages, her thoughts spilling out onto the page as easily as sand soaks up water. That tide of words had dried up, forced to a trickle by her circumstances, by the need to hold everything within her lest this diary ever be discovered.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stefan does not come around at all the next day. Traces of him appear throughout the day—breakfast, lunch, and dinner—but no Stefan.

Stealthily, a little afraid of being caught by Rebekah, she prowls around the house, searching for him in all of his usual places.

She finds him nowhere.

Eventually, she gives up and returns to her room.

The fall rain patters against her window panes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_We can’t touch. Or talk. And no lingering stares._

 

 

 

 

 

 

She wakes up after sunset and feels a hand on her face. In the darkness of her room, it’s impossible to tell who it is. Her heart jumps painfully in her chest.

“Go back to sleep, Elena.” The voice is Stefan’s.

 She leans into his touch, but he pulls away just as she moves closer.

 She is forever chasing him, it seems.

 

 

 

 

 

_Nooo, none of that._

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stefan comes back after that, but with Rebekah in tow. She looks beautiful and coiffed, her long hair brushed out until it glimmers.

“It occurs to me, Elena,” Rebekah begins, “that although you are my brother’s guest, you’ve never really joined us for dinner.” Rebekah’s smile is all sharp and deadly teeth, white and straight and perfect. Undoubtedly, Rebekah is planning something dreadful.

Stefan takes ahold of Rebekah’s arm. “Bex—“

“I thought I was just the bloodbank,” Elena reminds her. “That doesn’t exactly make me a guest.”

Rebekah pauses and cocks her head.

Stefan presses himself up against Rebekah and pulls her against him, twining their fingers. He stares at Elena, waiting for Rebekah’s response.

Finally, Rebekah speaks. “No, I suppose it doesn’t. My mistake.”

Stefan follows her out of the room without waiting for Rebekah to pull him with her.

She lets the linguini Stefan had brought her grow cold.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She stays up late writing in her diary. Doodling, really, her name, over and over, a reminder to herself of who she _is_ , not just who she looks like. Not just what purpose she serves. She loops her name with Stefan’s, draws little hearts around the design, just like she did when she was first falling in love with him, when she was supposed to be taking notes instead.

Glancing at it now, the design looks juvenile, inadequate. How can a few lopsided hearts adequately express what she feels for him?

Elena slips the diary back into its hiding spot and makes a spur of the moment decision to go to the library.

Yet once she is there, she realizes why she’s been avoiding it. A memory tears loose, set off by the sight of the comfortable leather furniture, the faintly shining wooden paneling and gleaming marble fireplace.

 _Her touch galvanizes him. In a heartbeat his free hand is buried in her hair, drawing her forward. Instantaneously she is grasping him by the shoulders, dragging him forward and against her with all of her strength. They meet in the middle, lips and teeth and tongues pressing, pulling, dancing against each other. She’s in his lap, legs wrapped around his waist, without quite knowing how she got there. Klaus’s hand is still pressed to the inside of her thigh, where he’s stroking over the sensitive flesh there. A deep throb pulses between her legs, hot and electric. Mindlessly, she grinds against him, not at all stopping to think about the repercussions of doing this with_ Klaus _._

It flashes through her in an instant, searing and insistent. Ruthlessly, she quashes it down before she has time to dwell on the way her body lights up just thinking about that dream.

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the hall, she can hear a trumpet whine. It’s always been a bad idea here, following music, following voices, but she can’t help herself. She’s a curious girl without any outlets.

As she draws nearer to the downstairs parlor, she can hear a mixture of other instruments join into the mix—upright bass, trombone, saxophone, clarinet. The instruments produce a mercurial music, riveting and running one moment, slow and thoughtful in another. Yet there’s a slightly scratchy quality to the jazz music, as though it is being played off of a very old record. It occurs to Elena that it probably is.  

Elena dares to peek through the slightly ajar door. There, in the corner, is an antique gramophone, something that must have been hauled out of the attic for this very purpose.

Reluctantly, she turns her attention to the two figures slowly dancing in the middle of the room.

It’s no surprise to see Stefan and Rebekah together. She’s seen them in various obscene poses, covered in blood and love bites, more times than she can count. What she hasn’t really seen before is a moment like this.

Stefan holds Rebekah close, one hand clasped around hers, the other low on her back. They sway to the music, and though their being so out of sync with the rhythm of the song should seem wrong, it’s clear that they are moving to a song _(a memory)_ that only they can hear.

Above them, the candelabra’s individual candles have been lit. The tiny flickering flames cast a warm glow over the room, and turn Stefan’s dark eyes liquid as he looks down into Rebekah’s face.

Rebekah leans up to murmur something in Stefan’s ear, and whatever she says shifts something within him. He looks down at Rebekah with an expression Elena has seen him wear when he looks at _her_. One of understanding and sympathy, the sort that passes between them when they share secrets too precious to ever utter aloud… It seems that she, Elena, is not the only one with the ability to peer beneath the surface of Stefan’s thoughts, to see the contents of his heart.

For the first time, she really allows herself to _believe_ in the love match between Stefan and Rebekah.

She experiences a moment of vertigo then. Ever since this started, she has thought of Rebekah as the interloper, the boyfriend-stealer, the one in the way. She’s been able to tune everything Rebekah has said to her that was much the same because she didn’t want to hear it.

_She has a nearly boundless capacity for self-deception._

Suddenly, she can see so clearly how this must be for Rebekah. Rebekah, who had loved Stefan in that wild, savage way that she seemed to experience all of her emotions. Who had been daggered and left in a dreamless sleep for the better part of a century, and when she awoke, yes, Stefan was at her side, but suddenly he was no longer simply _hers_. Instead, here was Elena, the wedge between them, the interloper, the one wrecking their happy home. 

No wonder Rebekah desired so badly to label Elena as Klaus’s chit and be done with it.

How much simpler that all would be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She really wishes that Tyler were here with her now.

_(She hopes Klaus brings him back at all.)_

 

 

 

 

Rebekah always joins Stefan for Elena’s meals now. Her feedings, she calls them.

Elena watches, always, for some hint of the honest affection she had noticed between them that night with the jazz. Now that she is looking for it, the bond is obvious. It’s in the way that Stefan presses his fingers to Rebekah’s wrist, in the way that Rebekah always scrutinizes Stefan’s face. Once, Elena had interpreted these gestures so differently—as Stefan stopping Rebekah’s violent tendencies, as Rebekah’s jealous paranoia. She’s had everything so warped.

More and more, she finds she doesn’t have the appetite to finish her meals.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Outside, the Japanese Maple is losing its leaves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes she still hears jazz filtering through the house at odd hours of the day. The sound of it gets stuck in her head, recalling to her something she was once told.

_I much preferred the twenties. The style. The parties. The jazz._

 

 

 

 

 

If she dreams about Klaus, she does not dwell on it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She skips her period. Stress, she thinks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Elena.”

She turns from the window she had been looking out of and gives Stefan a nod. The room isn’t really a music room, anymore, after Rebekah smashed up the upright piano, but the window seat overlooking the grounds is still one of Elena’s favorite spots.

At first, after that incident with Rebekah, she had been nervous about coming back to this room. Now that Klaus has gone, it seems stupid to worry about that. There is no place Rebekah would hesitate to follow her, if she wanted to.

He’s not dressed appropriately for the weather. The dark long sleeved tee-shirt he’s wearing wouldn’t do a thing to protect a human from the chilly winds outside. He used to make such an effort to appear human.

“What are you doing here?” she asks him. “Where Rebekah?”

“She left this morning to go shopping in town.” 

“You didn’t go with her?”

Stefan shrugs. “You can’t be left here by yourself. She knows that.”

He comes over to where she sits, moves her legs out of the way to make room for him. Her feet rest in his lap.

Outside, it starts to rain again.

“What’s the date?” she asks him.

“November 26th.”

She frowns. “What day of the week is it?”

“Friday.”

“Oh. Thanksgiving must have been yesterday, then.” Last year, Aunt Jenna had invited Stefan over for their family Thanksgiving. He had helped her do the dressing, and even Jeremy had come out of his room to mash the potatoes. Damon had tagged along, of course, which had annoyed everyone, except secretly Stefan had been happy about it, and Damon and Jenna had had too much to drink. It had been nice.

 She’d spent yesterday alone. Of course, she hadn’t even realized what day it was.

Stefan seems to read her mind. He wipes a tear away from her eye. She hadn’t even realized she had been crying. “Cheer up,” he tells her. “It’s not that big a deal. We didn’t even celebrate Thanksgiving when I was growing up.”

“Do you think I’ll ever have another Thanksgiving again? Surrounded by family and friends? Or do you think it’s going to be like this forever?”

She can see, so clearly, the two answers warring within Stefan. The truth, and whatever answer he _wants_ to give her. 

“I think,” he finally tells her, very slowly. “I think that you’ll be happy again.”

Elena feels extraordinary gratitude towards him for making this effort to comfort her. 

She leans into him then, because he is the closest thing to comfort that she has, and dammit, she’s going to take what she can right now. After a moment, Stefan puts his arms around her, and he doesn’t say anything when her silent tears soak through his cotton shirt.

When the tears stop, it’s the most natural thing in the world to tip her face up to look at him. Their eyes meet, and it must be muscle-memory, or instinct, because she leans up to brush her lips against his. His mouth yields to hers. He tastes like she remembers, and she is so irrationally glad of it.

And then he freezes. Right in the middle of kissing her, he just goes stiff on her.

She tries to pull back, the apology is already on her lips, but Stefan catches her by the shoulders and drags her closer. His fingers dig into the flesh at her shoulder-joint, hard enough to bruise. She struggles, a little, trying to twist away. He’s still kissing her.

He’s kissing her and his mouth is opening wider, and wider, his kisses hungrier and more savage with each pass.

His fang pricks her lip. She tries to pull back, but he won’t let her go. The cut stings. Blood sluices down over her teeth, pools onto her tongue. She tries not to panic.

Stefan sucks at the cut, tongue prodding at the wound, distended fangs tearing it further. Elena struggles against him, pushes at him with all of her strength, but her frantic attempts to escape only seem to invigorate the frenzy. He pins her arms to her side, and when she cries out, he only opens his mouth wider, fangs sinking into the skin above and below her mouth, piercing through the skin until his teeth clink against her own. She screams then, her frustration and fury and terror, all of it she screams into him.

It’s only then, sewn together by his bite, his bloody kiss, that he stills. He pulls away from her, with a dawning horror in his eyes as he sees what he has done to her.

“What happened?” he asks. Her blood drips from the corner of his mouth, is smeared all down his chin.

The sight of him overwhelms her.

She tries to speak but her mouth feels wrong, the lips swollen enormously, teeth all at odds from where they should be. Her hands tremble when she touches her fingertips to the ravaged skin. Just the barest pressure makes her hiss with pain.

When she can finally bring herself to look at Stefan again, he looks like he’s going to be sick.

“Elena, I don’t know what happened, I don’t remember—“

“Am I interrupting something?” Rebekah calls from the doorway. She leans against the doorjamb, long legs shown off by a pair of black leather boots, paired with a soft grey knit dress. She has shopping bags in her hands. When she catches sight of Elena’s ruined mouth, she bursts into gales of laughter. She laughs, and she laughs, until she has to drop her bags. Something inside of one of them breaks. “You’re so predictable!” she cries, finally, catching her breath. She comes over and stands beside Stefan, combing her fingers through his hair.

There’s snot mingling with Elena’s blood, dripping into the wounds on her lip. She doesn’t know when she started crying again, and can barely bring herself to care enough to catalogue it further.

“What do we think, Stefan? Shall we leave her like this? I think she’s much improved.” 

Elena wants to retort, but when she tries to speak she only ends up gasping from the pain of it all.

“Klaus’ll rip my heart out if he comes back and finds her like this,” Stefan mutters. There’s something defeated about the way he rolls up his sleeve and bites into his wrist. He looks like he, too, wants to cry.

“Oh, I doubt that, very much,” Rebekah murmurs. She doesn’t make any move to stop Stefan from healing her, though.

As much as Elena would like to reject Stefan’s blood on principal, she’s a survivor at heart and doesn’t hesitate to take what he offers her.

The magic takes its course immediately, stitching up and smoothing out what should have been ruined forever.

Elena wipes the blood from her teeth with her tongue.

“You did this.”

“What was that?” Rebekah asks. 

She stands up and stares Rebekah down. “You did this.”

“The blood’s on Stefan’s teeth, darling, not mine.”

“But you’re the one literally crowing with victory.” Elena glares. “So what was it? Did you compel him?”

Rebekah rolls her eyes and takes Elena’s spot on the window seat next to Stefan. “Obviously. Ages ago, after the last time I caught you together in here, though, I’d honestly forgotten about it until just now.”

Stefan clasps his hands together in front of him and stares straight ahead. “What was the compulsion, Bex?” He asks her with the same grave quiet with which he used to question Damon.

“Simple enough, really.” Rebekah picks at a nail while she talks, feigning casual but clearly all too happy to reveal what she had done. “All I did was instruct you that should Elena try to kiss you again, you were to tear her mouth off. It looked as though you’d done a charming job of it.” 

“What would have happened if I hadn’t been able to stop?”

“Oh, don’t act so aggrieved. She got what she deserved, and it looks like you did too.”

Stefan lifts his head to look at her. With a shock, Elena realizes that there are unshed tears matting his eyelashes.

Rebekah notices, too. There is a tense moment in which Elena is not certain how violently her rival will react. It’s so clear on Rebekah’s face, how Stefan’s anguish tears at her. How any evidence of Stefan’s feelings for Elena just eats her alive. In that instant, it seems just as likely as not that Rebekah’s may rip Stefan’s heart out. 

She makes it clear that her decision to flounce out of the room is only a reprieve, not a stay of judgment.

Looking at Stefan, Elena is certain she has finally awoken something human inside of him.

He cannot go on like this. 

It hadn’t occurred to her that his humanity might be the thing that kills him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She had thought herself a puppet doomed to dance on everyone else’s strings when she first arrived. The thought had made her bitter and resentful, of Klaus, of Rebekah, and even of Stefan. She sees, now, though, that Stefan is just as much a puppet as she. Lover and servant and object of desire and of jealousy, jerked around between Klaus and Rebekah with no guaranty that they will not tear him apart in the process of trying to claim him. 

She had never imagined that she, too, had had her hands on his strings.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Once she has wiped the blood from her mouth and chin, she studies her reflection in her bathroom mirror. There’s nothing left except for a series of silvery scars on her upper lip and over the curve of her chin. One of them is deeper than the rest, a dimple that curves into a slight line distending from her upper lip, where Stefan had torn the flesh clean through.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_It’s you and me, Stefan. Always._

 

 

 

 

In the end, there’s really no other decision to make.

She finds him alone the next afternoon, down in the kitchen. It is half past noon, and Stefan has not yet begun putting her next meal together. His back is to her as he looks through the cupboard, and she takes a moment to study him. 

“I’m surprised you’re willing to be alone with me,” Stefan tells her without turning around.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re not scared, after yesterday?”

“Should I be?”

“I am.”

Elena takes a deep breath, and, steeling herself, reaches out to put a hand on Stefan’s shoulder. He leans into her touch. How much this would have meant to her just a few months ago. How much this means to her now.

He turns to face her. “I don’t know what other compulsions Bex may have laid on me.” 

“It doesn’t matter.”

“That’s foolish. I can’t—“

“Stefan. Listen to me.  Just—Know that I love you. And that even though I can’t let go of that, I can let go of you.” This is the first time since they came here that she has put her feelings for him into words.

“Elena, I know that you’re upset after yesterday.”

“I don’t want you to be hurt because of me.”

Under her hand, she can feel the tension in him engendered by her words, like the split in the ice just before an avalanche. “I don’t want to stop this. I don’t want to give you up. I feel... I feel…”  

The old Stefan, the one with his humanity on, would never be so selfish after yesterday. The guilt would have eaten him alive by now. And yet, she knows that if she lets him finish, if she lets him tell her how he feels, she will not have the strength for this parting.  

“Then tell me that you won’t get hurt. Promise me that my loving you isn’t going to be the thing that kills you.” Tears blur her vision and make her voice almost too thick to speak, and God, she is so sick of crying. She doesn’t think she can ever stop.

He shakes his head. “I can’t make promises like that.”

“That’s why I’m putting an end to this.”

When she leaves him, he does not try to catch her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_I love you, Stefan. Hold onto that. Never let that go._

 

 

 

 

The last leaf falls off the Japanese Maple, pale and brown.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Please leave a review if you are enjoying this. Hearing your feedback really does make all the difference in keeping this going!
> 
> Klaus will be back next chapter, now that Stefan and Elena have had room to really break up. And he may be less than happy about how Rebekah has chosen to handle his absence…
> 
> In the mean time, be on the lookout for a Klaus/Elena oneshot that I will be posting this week!


	15. Fifteen

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stefan doesn’t bring her breakfast the next morning. Really, she’s fine with it. If she sees him right now, she might break.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s later, as she reflects and writes in the diary Stefan had gifted her, that she realizes. Stefan had been a dream—no, a memory of a dream that she had nourished with her heart’s blood, but which had never really had any chance of coming true again without terrible consequence. In many ways, it had been her last dream.

But a dreamless sleep is said to be the deepest sleep of all. And she is so, so tired.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The scar startles her each time she catches her reflection. She takes to avoiding looking at her face when she brushes her teeth or straightens her hair, but she still catches glimpses of the unfamiliar line out of the corner of her eye. She cannot really say why, it’s just a scar, half an inch long, straight and slender, already looking like it had been healed for years, except—

She’ll never pass as Katherine again.

Somehow, that makes her feel like less herself than ever.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Learning to let go is hard.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Elena slips through the house on bare feet, letting the chill of the floor boards soak up into her skin.

Outside, the first frost of the season covers everything with a gleaming silver blanket that sparkles in the weak morning sunlight.

She wanders from room to room, hall to hall, peeking past doors left ajar and peering down corridors, pausing to listen.

Finally, she spots a silvery blonde head of hair disappearing around a corner.

“Rebekah! Wait!”

Rebekah turns, and cocks her head, as she waits for Elena to hurry over to her. There’s a vague curiosity in her air, the hawk wondering which way the mouse will run before it kills it.

For a wonder, Stefan is not with her. It’s a small mercy, but a mercy all the same.

Elena has too much pride to think that this will be easy, and she doesn’t know if she could do this if anyone else were here to listen.

Rebekah crosses her arms under her breasts and flips her hair back over her shoulder. “If you think I’m going to apologize or feel the smallest ounce of pity for taking you down a notch, then you don’t know me very well.”

Elena frowns. “I didn’t come here for that.”

“Oh? I suppose then you’re here to beg—“

“Rebekah. Just listen.” She pauses, and waits until she is sure that Rebekah is not going to go on. She only wants to have to say this once. “You win, Rebekah. I’m taking myself out of the race.”

Stefan’s name hangs between them, all the more deafening for not being said aloud.

For her part, Rebekah looks like she’s just been hit between the eyes. Incredulity flashes in her eyes, and suspicion plays at the corner of her mouth, but beneath those things, a hint of the insecure girl who will never grow up shows. Elena meets her stare for stare and wills the other girl to believe her.

“Really?” she asks, eventually, voice high and uncertain. It occurs to Elena that her usually imperious tone hides that girlish quality about her.

“Really.”

“Why? Why now?”

“Because I don’t want to hurt him anymore. And because he does love you.” Her throat tightens around the last part, some guttering spark within her refusing to surrender, but she forces herself to say it all. To let go.

Another girl might tell her, _He loves you, too_. Rebekah doesn’t. Elena tells herself to be glad that she doesn’t.

Brow knit, Rebekah studies her, eyes intent on her face. Finally, she nods. “That’s truce then, I suppose.” She grimaces. “I’d rather not shake on it.”

Not that Elena is stupid enough to believe in truce from one of the Originals.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Perhaps another week goes by. Stefan continues to bring her meals, though Rebekah never lets him stay longer than it takes to deliver them. Whether she is trying to spare Elena the pain of his presence or is simply still too jealous of Stefan’s attention remains unclear. Sometimes, he doesn’t come at all.

Idly, she wonders whether Rebekah has had to add another layer to Klaus’s compulsion in order to keep Stefan from monitoring her more closely. She tears her toast into scraps while she wonders, and dusts the crumbs from her fingers without really noticing what she is doing.

No one makes her do much of anything now. Slowly but surely, the routine has worn away in Klaus’s absence. There are two days when she doesn’t get out of bed for longer than it takes to bring her trays down to the kitchen, and another three when she goes outside for her walk and sits under the dead maple tree for a long, long time. On the third, she stays until the sun goes down completely and everything settles into the deep dark of a winter night. Her fingers are numb and her mind slow with the cold when Stefan finally remembers to look for her and brings her in.

It’s dark, when she first sees him, and it’s not until they are inside that she notices the blood ring around his mouth, the dark stain on his grey shirt. Rebekah watches them from the doorway, a smear on her cheek that she doesn’t seem to notice.  The tag sticks up from her blouse collar; she has it on inside out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alone in her bedroom, she forms a fist with her hand. The wind-chapped skin cracks and bleeds as soon as she flexes it. The blood is fever-bright in the lamp light. Vaguely, she thinks Klaus was right, she does need a pair of gloves. She doesn’t bother to wash the blood away before falling fully clothed into her bed to sleep. 

There just doesn’t seem to be a point in much anymore. Her plan to win Stefan over, to subvert Klaus’s will, had already reaped its first harvest when he helped her save Matt, but she sees now that taking root in him further will destroy him rather than heal him.

Of course, there is still Tyler. But knowing what she knows about the sire bond, she’s at a loss on how to really help him, or even reach him. All she can do is be there for him, as he is there for her. And yet, she doubts that that will be enough, even as she resigns herself that it will have to be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

On the seventh day, Klaus returns.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He returns without warning or preamble.

Elena’s at the top of the curving front stairway, just about to come down, when the double doors in the entrance foyer bang open, and Klaus saunters in. Elena freezes.

He looks just as she remembers, only, _more_. It’s a feeling she recalls from that lightning flash moment in the school hallway on Senior Prank Night, when she had turned a corner and he was just there, suddenly, snatching at her arm and leering into her face. The memory of him is never enough to contain the reality, the way the air pressure seems to drop whenever he enters a room, and the hairs at the nape of her neck stand on end, the sense of a storm churning on the edge of a hurricane. 

Rebekah and Stefan emerge from the front parlor, and immediately secure Klaus’s attention.

They say something to each other, but Elena’s heart, galloping in her chest, blocks out whatever it might be.

_Elena_

She hears her name, through the _thud-thud_ of her hammering heart. This is probably the time to present herself, but she can’t move her feet. 

Klaus spots her standing at the top of the stairs anyway, and turns toward her. His face jars loose flashes of dream-memory mixed with the thoughts that surface just before sleep. Thoughts she wishes would remain submerged forever.

A smile, overly warm yet impersonal, starts to pull at his lips. “Ah, there you are. Come now, let’s see my girl. I trust Stefan here has been taking care of you.” He comes to stand at the foot of the stairs, and holds out his hand for her to take.

The familiarity of the gesture jolts her into moving, into brushing past him, the way this script between them demands.

She goes to lean against the wall by the door, across from where Rebekah and Stefan are waiting. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see a whole crowd standing outside, an air of anxiety to the way they shift and mill. Klaus’s new hybrids. She is too afraid to look, lest Tyler not be one of them.

Klaus turns smoothly to follow her, clearly not intending to let her slip past. Amusement roughens his voice when he speaks. “I see you haven’t lost an ounce of stubbornness in the past month—“ His eyes latch onto her face. He frowns. “What is that?”

The scar on her lip throbs under his scrutiny.

She claps a hand over her mouth, but he bats it away and grips her under the chin, tilts her head this way and that as he glowers at her mouth. Elena pries at his hand, trying to get out from under his focused attention. _(A feeble attempt. She always has his attention.)_

“That’s a bite mark,” he remarks, voice so low she would not have heard it if he hadn’t been right there. She has no doubt that Stefan and Rebekah have heard him crystal clear though.

Just as quickly as he’d grabbed her he whirls to face the others. “Who,” he snarls, “got his teeth into her?”

“Nik, I think you’re overreacting,” Rebekah begins.

“How? I left _express_ orders for her to be watched over! And look how you return her!”

“Oh, it’s hardly noticeable.” Rebekah shoots Elena a glare that clearly means, _Stay out of this._

“Look at her face and tell me that!” he shouts, gesturing wildly at Elena.

“Oh yes, her face! That’s what this is really about, isn’t it? Your obsession with that _perfect_ face. Well it’s ruined now, isn’t it?”

If anything had been close to hand, Klaus would have smashed it. Faster than Elena’s eye can track, he’s pinned his sister to the wall, his arm pressed tight to her throat, teeth bared at her, and then Stefan pushes his way between them.

“It was me. Klaus, it was me,” Stefan insists, a quiet power in his voice. A determination that Elena recognizes from those days from before when his guilt and need for penance laid heaviest on his mind.

The declaration sends everything into a topsy-turvy chaos—Klaus furiously reaches for Stefan and Rebekah pulls him back, shouting, “It’s my fault, Nik! I compelled him to do it!” They go on like that, tearing at each other, until Elena cannot stand back any longer. Without a thought she flings herself forward, into the terrible, maybe deadly confrontation.

Desperately, she throws herself between Klaus and Stefan, and grabs a hold of Klaus’s shirt. “Stop!” He freezes mid-motion. His hand had been making a dive for Stefan’s sternum, and had paused a hair’s breadth from her chest. Another millisecond, and she might have been dead.

“Out of the way, Elena,” Klaus orders.

She sets her jaw. “No.”

Klaus fixes his full attention on her, then. The scar on her lip makes his eyes narrow into slits all over again, but he no longer has the light of murder in his eyes that he had had just a moment ago. The initial rage is passing, like a wave that has crested.

“Tyler,” he calls evenly, not breaking eye contact with Elena for a second. “Take Elena back to her room. I need to have a word with the rest of the family.”

And just like that, Tyler breaks free from the pack of hybrids outside, a dark familiar shape silhouetted by the bright morning light shining in through the open front door.

She is so relieved to see him that she lets him break her away from the tangle, his gentle hand on her arm leading her back up the stairs, into the relative safety of her bedroom.

“Now,” she hears Klaus begin as soon as she is halfway up the steps. “Explain to me how Elena came by that scar. _In detail._ ”

Tyler pulls her out of the stairway and down the hall, and Rebekah’s answer is lost to the distance.

Left alone with Tyler, the guilt she feels over their last interaction closes in on her. 

“How are you?” she asks him quietly. It’s a poor start.

He glances at her briefly before turning his eyes forward again. “Getting by.”

“I wasn’t sure you were coming back.”

“Thought that was alright with you.”

She opens her bedroom door and pulls him inside. “Look, Ty, I’m sorry.”

He scratches at the back of his neck. “You don’t have anything to be sorry about, ‘Lena.”

“No, I do. I forgot that we’re both prisoners here, one way or another.”

“I’m not a prisoner,” he tells her quickly.

She smiles sadly at him and sits down on her bed. “Of course not. But I wasn’t acting like your friend, and I’m sorry. I know we’re both in difficult situations all the same, and that you’re doing your best.” She pats the spot next to her and waits for Tyler to settle down next to her before asking, “What happened when you were gone? Were you able to…. _help_ any of Klaus’s hybrids?”

“Yeah, if you mean teaching them not to piss Klaus off too much.”

Downstairs, she hears a window break.

“Almost everyone who was here before is gone,” he continues, like he can’t heart the raised voices downstairs. “Sent out on Klaus’s orders. We have a new batch here to train. Klaus wants to put me in charge of them, officially.”

There’s a long silence. She takes the moment to study him. He’s dressed in black jeans and a leather jacket, not all that different than something he would have worn back home, but there is still something different about him. He hasn’t aged, of course—he never will again—but there is still something older about him than there was just a month ago. A weight to his presence that wasn’t there before.

“Where did you go? To… recruit, I mean.”

Tyler hunches forward, elbows on knees. He keeps his focus straight ahead as he tells her, “All sorts of places. Some places I wish we hadn’t gone.” He chews at his lip, still not looking at her. “Out west, mostly. We passed through Louisiana on our way back.”

She waits, but he doesn’t look like he wants to say anything more on the topic.

Finally, he turns to look her over, sharp eyes measuring each hair on her head.

“More importantly, what really happened _here_?”

Elena’s mouth works. A lie starts to form, but as she looks up into his face, the words wither on her tongue.

She finds that there aren’t any words, and when she lunges forward to wrap her arms around Tyler, it doesn’t matter, because he folds himself around her, soaks up the tears she didn’t even know she was crying, and in the end, he is still here, her friend.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Klaus steps into her room that afternoon, long after Tyler has left.

She’s been curled up in the armchair by the window, not really wanting to leave the room while Klaus was on the outs with his sister. Once she had learned that no hearts had been ripped out, and everyone was more or less alright, she had been content to stay where she was.

He comes over to her and peers closely into her face.

“Does it bother you that much?” she asks him acidly.

“Yes.”

Elena huffs and pushes past him to start sorting through her dresser drawers, refolding her sweaters just for something to keep her hands busy while she fumes. “You know, I’m _glad_. Maybe you’ll get over your sick fascination with my face now.”

She turns her head so she can watch him over her shoulder, through the curtain of her hair. He’s just standing there, eyes darker than they should be, still as death as he watches her.

Suddenly, he’s _right_ behind her. He reaches past her, chest brushing against her back, and rubs his thumb against the pulse in her wrist. Like this, he is certain to feel every jump in her heart beat. “I told you Bex is as jealous as a cat. Of course she tried to mar you.”

Elena breaks her hand away and twists around, so they are face to face. So close, she is forced to tilt her head back to speak to him—almost as though she were waiting to be kissed.

“Am I? _Marred_?” She’s surprised that really wants to know what he thinks.

He touches her upper lip and traces the line out. “I never should have left you with my sister. That was careless.” He smiles, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Can I trust you to behave, Elena?" 

“Why?” she asks. His finger is still tracing her scar. When she speaks, her mouth brushes his palm. Annoyed, she tosses her head back and leans away from him.

“Some circumstances of which I was not aware were brought to my attention while I was away. I have business to attend to elsewhere.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“It was folly to leave you here. Besides the _incident_ , you’re clearly too thin and too pale—I suppose Bex spent the whole time scheming for ways to get around dear Stefan’s instructions?” He nods to himself without any sign of affirmation from her. “Of course she did. That leaves us with only one option. I need you to come with me.”

_Go with him?_

Dumbfounded, Elena asks the only question she can think of. “Where?”

This time, the grin on Klaus’s face is a true one. “Why, New Orleans of course.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

The morning she and Klaus are set to leave, she pulls her diary from her hiding place, and discovers a sprig of vervain pressed between the pages. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so who wants to lay bets on what happens in Nola? 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and thank you to all of my wonderful reviewers! Your insights and comments have been such a great motivation to get back to writing, and to stay the course with this. Reviews are always appreciated, or if you want to talk tvd, ou can find me on tumblr at livlepretre – my ask box is always open.


	16. Sixteen

 

 

 

 

 

The grey leather bag is there at the foot of her bed when she wakes up the morning of her departure. It looks innocent enough, but she eyes it like a viper before throwing the covers back and dashing over to it. Up close, she can see that there are actually two of them, a dress bag folded over an old-fashioned duffle.

Frowning, Elena unzips the dress bag and fingers the shimmering length of black silk-satin inside. The feel of it reminds her of her Miss Mystic Falls gown, the most luxurious dress she had ever owned. Nostalgia nearly settles over her like a cloak, but she throws it back.

Quickly, she rifles through the rest of the baggage. Some of the clothes inside are familiar, sweaters and jeans she’s had since she came here, but the dress isn’t the only new item she discovers. She sits back on her heels and glowers at the bags. If she had to bet, every new scrap of clothing in there will fit her like a glove, just like everything else she has been given.

And _someone_ had had the nerve to come in here during the night and leave these bags. There is no doubt in her mind who that _someone_ had been.

After nearly four months in Klaus’s household, things like bags full of new clothing just appearing in her bedroom don’t phase her as much as they used to. Still. The presumption irritates her, in ways she had thought she had grown past, had become too tired to feel. She empties out the duffel and repacks it with the clothes still remaining in her dresser. Something keeps her from doing the same thing to the dresses, but she dismisses any self-analysis there.

She lets herself run on auto-pilot while she repacks. It feels good to do something so normal, even while she doesn’t let herself linger too long on what this trip will actually be like. Without even thinking about it, she crawls under her bed and fetches her diary out of its hiding spot. She’s never gone _anywhere_ without her diary, not since her mother first encouraged her to keep one. And besides. Bringing it with her seems _right_ , the habit of writing in it already strong and second-nature and completely indispensable after only a little over a month with it.

Even as she looks for a discrete place to nestle her book in between pairs of jeans, she knows that she can’t actually take it with her. True, there’s nothing directly incriminating in the book— she’s always been too worried about discovery to lay her deepest secrets down in writing—but the book itself would lead to too many questions. It still seems too risky for Klaus to know that someone other than him had shown her a kindness. Just the thought of him discovering what she and Stefan had been building before she broke it off is enough to freeze her blood.

Regretfully, she flips through the pages. There’s no way she can bring it with her, but she doesn’t know what she’ll do with herself without it. It’s a problem on the horizon that unfortunately draws nearer each time she writes in this journal, though. The pages are already halfway filled. She hasn’t let herself think about what she will do when she runs out of space. Once that happens, she may never get another one. The creeping fear that that will be it, that her voice will be silenced forever once she fills the last line, lurks somewhere dim and murky in the back of her mind, but she does not let it become more than that. She’s idly wondering if she’ll have time for one last entry before she leaves when she finds it. Pressed innocently between two pages, a sprig of vervain.  

Elena plucks the vervain out and stares.

A surge of hope flares bright in her chest, one that she ruthlessly quashes down. She cannot afford to speculate that Stefan is behind this, even as she realizes that that has to be the most likely scenario, since he is the only one who for certain knows about the book. But why give her the vervain?

No, she cannot afford to assume this comes from an ally.

Possibilities swamp her. Stefan could have been compelled to do it. Any hybrid could have been. Or Klaus or even Rebekah could have done it themselves. Knowing Klaus, this would be exactly the kind of mind-fuck he would enjoy—slip her some vervain, and then watch her incriminate herself with it. But that begs the question, would he bother?  What was worse, the fact that someone had passed her the vervain, or the fact that someone knew where to leave it for her in the first place?

One thing that is for certain, she will never turn down a weapon once it is in her hand.

The door swings open without warning. The diary tumbles from her fingers, and she kicks it under the pile of discarded clothing on the floor the best that she can. Klaus saunters in, a wide smile on his face. The vervain is still clutched in her hand. She balls both hands into fists to try to hide it from him.

“Ah, up already.” Klaus glances at her open bags, at the pile of rumpled clothes that she has rejected. The smile widens. “Eager for our journey?”

Elena tosses her head. “What’s with the dresses, Klaus?”

“You don’t approve? Katerina always liked my gifts.”

“I’m not Katherine.”

A flicker of his eyelid, no more. “Perhaps, perhaps not.” He leans back against the door jamb and gestures toward the dress bag. “Nevertheless, it’s well that you didn’t throw the garments out. The City that Care Forgot forgoes a good many of the usual rules, but its denizens still hold to certain outward formalities. It’ll be easier if you’re dressed for the part.” She notices that he doesn’t bother to say what part it is she will be playing. 

Elena clenches her fist, crushing the vervain against her palm. Klaus just leans against the wall, looking at her. Always looking at her.

“Do you have a reason for coming in here?” she asks him finally. 

“Oh, yes. Be ready in half an hour,” he tells her. “Though, I’ll still spirit you away, no matter if you’re not ready.” There’s a strangely warm undertone in his voice as he tells her this, as though he had not done that very thing to her on two separate occasions. He’s probably flirting with her.

As soon as Klaus is out the door Elena hurries into the bathroom and throws on the shower. The spray pounding against the bottom of the claw-foot tub helps to screen her movements from sensitive vampiric hearing.

The diary goes back into its hiding spot, of course, but the vervain is another matter. She can’t just leave it, not when having it might be critical later, when she is alone with Klaus. Yet she also cannot afford to be caught with it.

_And who had given it to her and what did it mean and how would Klaus react if he learned of it?_

The tendril of fear that uncurls in her belly at the thought is quashed as ruthlessly as she has crushed every other fear Klaus has inspired in her over the past year. 

A pair of nail clippers solves the issue—she’s not been given any scissors or knives, but her nail clippers have a sharp little metal blade that swivels out from the joint, the kind meant for cleaning grime from beneath the nails. She uses it to tear a hole in the silk lining of her duffel, near the bottom of the bag where it won’t be noticed by any casual observers. Working quickly, she slips the vervain into the space she’s created between the lining and the bottom of the bag.  

For a moment, she thinks about ingesting some right now, but some niggling doubt stops her. She doesn’t know when having a lot of it later might be the difference between life and death. Not hers—Klaus taught her to stop caring about that last spring—but someone else’s. 

She’s just finished showering and brushing out her long straight hair when Klaus reappears at her doorway. Her bags have disappeared while she was in the shower, doubtlessly carried away by one of the hybrids that Klaus seems to use as army, servants, and entourage all rolled into one.  

“Shall we?” Klaus asks her. He holds out his hand to her. Her hand barely trembles as she takes it, and she doesn’t flush at all when Klaus wraps his fingers around her wrist and—

 

 

 

 

 

 

_“You haven’t been in the library at all while I was away, have you?”_

_Elena glances up from her spot under the bare limbs of the Japanese Maple._

_Klaus stands over her, dressed in a canvas jacket incongruously light for the cold early December weather. Elena’s bundled up in her warm coat, but her bottom had gone numb from sitting on the nearly frozen ground half an hour ago._

_“I didn’t feel like it.”_

_Klaus crouches down in front of her, fishes something out of his pocket and hands it to her—a pair of leather gloves so dark a brown they are nearly black. “To match your eyes,” he murmurs._

_Slowly, Elena pulls them from his hands and puts them on. She is very careful not to touch his skin._

_Preparations have been underway for the last three days for their trip to New Orleans. They’ll be leaving in another three, or maybe four, but certainly before the week is out. It seems that whatever business it is Klaus has there, he thinks it urgent._

_He stands again and pulls her up with him. The cold has numbed her legs, and she stumbles a little bit in his arms, but he catches her easily against him. Even through her thick coat and leather gloves, she is all too aware of him. He radiates heat like a furnace. It’s one of the things about him that had been clearest in her dreams, that wild sense that he was a living flame that she would gladly let consume her._

_“Did my sister inhibit you from going?” he asks her mildly as he leads her back toward the house._

_“No. She didn’t really care what I did.” So long as it wasn’t with Stefan. “I just didn’t go.” Heat suffuses her when she thinks on the dreams that had truly kept her out. Hopefully, Klaus will just think it’s the cold making her face glow rosy._

_“Strange. You were there every day before that. I feared it would become more your refuge than mine.”_

_She frowns. “Hard to be a refuge when it’s full of dead bodies.”_

_He laughs. “You climbed over them just fine, as I recall.”_

_Elena stares straight ahead._

You’re so cruel.

It’s in my nature. And in yours.

_“How did you know I hadn’t been in?” she asks him as he helps her take her coat off at the door._

_He is quiet for a long time before he answers. “The room no longer felt so alive.  I found I rather preferred it as it had been before.”_

 

 

 

 

 _—_ she blinks at the slow roll of black water beneath her feet. Straight ahead, a city glitters along the serpentine bank of the river, lights twinkling softly against the dark night sky.

Shakily, Elena puts her hand to the boat railing ahead of her and braces herself against the rolling heave of the river current.

_I was in my bedroom._

“This is near exactly the first view I ever had of the city,” Klaus tells her lowly, from just behind her. “Of course, that was long before the electric light changed everything, but…” He points to a towering white building capped with three grey spires, the focal point of everything around it. “Some things change, yet also remain the same. The Cathedral there, for instance. A different building than the one I first clapped eyes on, yet the same as when I left here last.”

She thinks of those books she had found, months ago now. At the time, she’d been too hesitant to pry further into Klaus’s apparent interest in the city, but now that they are here…

“You sound like you have a history here.”

She can feel Klaus’s smile, even though she cannot see it. Something in his air changes infinitesimally with the expression. “Oh, I do. You might say I’m practically a founding father.”

_I was in my bedroom._

Elena shakes her head, trying to clear thoughts that seem clouded and sluggish. “When did we get on this boat?” she asks aloud.

“Some little while ago.”

“I don’t remember…” 

“Oh, I compelled you for the journey here not to remember a single detail until I said so.” He moves to stand beside her at the railing, eyes gathering and reflecting the light of the moon. “Isn’t it marvelous for your first proper glimpse of the city to be from the river, as it should be?” There’s another light in his eyes, too. Excitement. Never a good thing when Klaus gets excited.

“Did you compel me so I wouldn’t know where you’re keeping me, or so that I could have this exact view when I came to?” 

 “Well, of course it would never do for you to know where you’re being held. But it would have been a shame to ruin your first view of New Orleans with how one must approach the city _these_ days.” From his tone, there is no doubt which of the two was the more important. 

And he had the gall to claim he didn’t have a flair for the dramatic. 

She should be very angry with him. Should be feeling _something_ , even the irritation she had felt earlier when he’d packed her bag for her. It’s just that she is so, so tired.

He’s right though. The view of the city from the water is a dramatic one.

As they draw closer to the shore, sound begins to drift in over the water. The blare of traffic horns, the gabble of voices, singing, laughing, crying—all the normal sounds of a city—but underneath that—Someone is playing the saxophone nearby. A full, moody note that hangs in the air. And beneath that, the clop-clop of hooves on the street and trundle of a carriage going past.

The river itself is a melody that nearly lulls her, the way that water always does, the soft suck of the current against the side of the boat, and in the distance, the wail from another ship passing down the river.

The river sings her the siren call of deep dark water.

For the first time in a very, very long time, she feels a thrill course through her.

Klaus had called it _the city that care forgot_. She feels _ready_ to forget. For just a little while, she thinks, she would like very much to forget who Klaus is. Perhaps even to forget herself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all of my lovely reviewers, I am so thrilled by the response this has been getting! I know you are all clamoring to find out what Klaus plans for Elena, and what he is thinking/feeling—but it’ll be twice as fun to find out when Elena does, so be patient! There is going to be lots of K/E interaction in the next few chapters, and lots of drama in New Orleans. 
> 
> Thoughts? Comments? Desire to discuss tvd meta? Leave a review or drop by my ask box on tumblr at livlepretre


	17. Seventeen

 

 

 

 

 

 

_“You can’t trust him.”_

_It’s a conversation she and Stefan have had several times already since he learned yesterday that she is to be accompanying Klaus on this next trip._

_“I don’t.”_

_“You underestimate him.”_

_She rolls her eyes and plays with the edge of her gloves. “Hard to underestimate my murderer, Stefan.”_

_“You think you know the rules. Know his game, and how he likes to play.”_

Of course she does. She’s an expert.

_“Don’t fool yourself.”_

 

 

 

The house Klaus brings her too doesn’t look like much from the exterior—a pale pink stucco front wall with a tall wooden door behind an iron gate that accounts for much of the width of it. For all appearances, it’s going to be a narrow, cramped shoebox of a place.  It therefore surprises her when she steps through, and the house is much bigger on the inside than that exterior wall could ever account for. French doors off the foyer lead to a narrow, walled courtyard, with what looks like a balcony overlooking it.

“This is your house?” she asks him as she peers into the night.

“At the moment. You could say I’m borrowing the place. Elijah maintains a plantation home half an hour outside of the city, but I preferred to stay in the city itself.” Elena wonders if the real owners are still alive.

“Because you need to maintain a real presence here for whatever your business is.”  

“Hm.” He tilts his head. “You’re a sharp little thing, aren’t you? With a head for intrigue, no doubt.”

Elena shrugs. She’s not comfortable with Klaus examining this line of thought too carefully.  

The neighborhood around the property, tucked into the back of the Quarter, is quieter than Elena would ever have believed from the city’s reputation. Klaus rattles off a list of who his neighbors were the last time he was in residence in this neighborhood, and who they are now. Some of those names make her eyebrows rise, but she smothers the reaction quickly. It wouldn’t do to show too much interest.

From the must and the white cloths covering the antique furniture inside, protecting it from the thick layer of dust that coats everything, Elena suspects that it has been a _very_ long time since anyone was here last. The entire house has the air of something that has been shut up too long. ( _It’s an air she knows intimately.)_ Every room is like that the night they arrive, and she has to wait for a compelled staff to prepare a bedroom for her. Klaus waits with her, leaning against the door jamb and watching her.

She can feel the weight of his eyes on her, that ever present sensation.

“Why don’t you have any staff back home?” The word slips out of her before she can help herself, and a dull horror creeps inside of her bones when she hears herself call that wretched, lonely place _home_.

Klaus quirks a smile at her. “What makes you think I don’t? The hybrids are wonderful groundskeepers, once properly instructed,” he tells her lightly.

He doesn’t say a word about her slip up. Nothing to indicate what he thinks.

She clears her throat. “What’s the agenda then?”

“No need to worry your pretty head about that. There’ll be time for all things soon enough.”

The file of servants finishes tidying the room and marches out, on to rest of the house.

Klaus leaves her. “Sleep well, my dear.” He shuts her up in her room, alone. Dimly, she can hear the staff bustling through the house. It’s comforting to know that there are other humans nearby.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She finds a bruise on her wrist the next morning. She thinks she must have gotten it the day before, during the hours she cannot remember.

 

 

 

 

 

 

For the very first time in a long, long time, Elena must venture out of bed if she wants anything for breakfast.

Right away, the change in routine invigorates her.

She wanders downstairs, trailing her fingers over plaster walls, cool and slightly damp to the touch, her fingers ghosting over the intricately millworked banister, the dark wood shining faintly in the morning light pouring through double-leaded windows.

The whole house resonates with a silence so contrary to last night’s strange, ant-like hum and bustle as Klaus’s compelled servants had cleared away what felt like decades of dust and disuse to transform the house into this soft, gleaming beauty that she cannot help but appreciate.

She had fallen asleep to the sound of those exertions last night, dampened to a low murmuring buzz by the solid cypress bedroom door. _Apart from stray snatches of dreams that had seemed too real, a reoccurring tendency toward nightmares since her death, it had been the first real rest she had had in ages._

Silence had become her shroud while she languished trapped in that other house, pierced only by moments of horror sharp as broken glass. But then, in her isolation, she had _belonged_ to the dead, and the dead had been her only companions.  

The silence this morning is a different sort altogether. For the first time in a long, long time, the silence does not press in on her. With the sun fresh on her face, she feels the shroud shed from her shoulders.

The thought _(the hope)_ that she may be allowed well and truly _out_ bubbles in her chest, a fizzy and light as pink champagne.

It is in this mood, feeling buoyed by her new surroundings, that Elena finds Klaus in the kitchen, studying a piece of paper.

“Good morning,” she calls from the doorway.  

Immediately, Klaus straightens, stuffing whatever it was he had been looking at into his jacket pocket.

“I trust you slept well?” he asks.

“Hm.” Elena looks around her. Unlike the rest of the house, the kitchen has been updated sometime in the past century. The appliances are all modern, if a little old.

“Are you hungry?” He gestures vaguely to the refrigerator.

It occurs to her, suddenly, that when their conversations are not frankly bizarre and or terrifying, that Klaus struggles with the small talk.

She leans her elbows on the counter and dares to stare Klaus in the face for a moment. He stares back at her.

“I want to see the city.” The desire floods her as she says it, a yearning to see someplace new and full of life and humanity so earnest and true that she knows something inside of her will crack and break if he does not grant it.

He raises an eyebrow at her. “And waylay my plans?”

“I’ve never been to New Orleans before. And you made it seem so—so—“ She struggles for the word that will appeal to him here. “So _singular_.”

Klaus’s lips quirk. “Well, obviously.”

“Won’t you show me?” She resists batting her eyelashes, knows that very nearly flirting with Klaus just to escape the confines of four walls and a yard for the first time in months is likely a _terrible_ idea. Nonetheless.

“I suppose that a day of sight-seeing won’t harm anything.”

The radiant smile she bestows on him isn’t even feigned.

_Nor bitter, nor loathing._  

Later, she’ll think back on this, the first time she really smiled for him, and the way he paused for just an infinitesimal moment when she did, but for now, she is too busy racing to grab her jacket to notice.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Elena follows Klaus out onto the uneven sidewalks of New Orleans, skipping over puddles of dark brown water collected in the dips, their surfaces reflecting the blue sky like mirrors.

All at once, the reality of this place hits her. There are people, people _everywhere_ , disappearing through iron gates and into dark hole-in-the-wall shops, meandering up and down the sidewalks, spilling haphazardly across the streets with no regard for traffic laws. It has been _so long_ since she has been among so many people, all of them just out and living their lives, none of them aware that the most dangerous beast of all walks amongst them. The sight of them fills her with a fierce joy that pushes down every other feeling within her, all of the despair and love and longing, into just the faintest pinpricks.

In the distance, she can hear the bells at St. Louis Cathedral tolling the hour.

They turn onto Royal Street in short order, the street name marked in white tile with blue lettering affixed to the side of a shop. _Calle Real._ By now, she has heard Klaus’s sketch of the city, how it passed hands from the French to the Spanish to the French to the Americans. She sees pink plaster buildings with dramatic wrought iron balconies, listens to Klaus recollect the Great New Orleans Fire and the “lesser known” Fire of 1794. She should have known he would be unable to resist playing the tour guide.

“By then, of course, the Spanish had control of the city,” he tells her. Casually, he lifts her over a particularly bad puddle. “Terrible luck. Most of the original buildings were made of cypress back then.” And here, he looks abashed, which is an expression she has _never_ seen on his face before.

“Why does that matter?”

“Cypress is a wonderful wood—the immortal wood, we call it, because it’s water-tight and never succumbs to rot. And, of course, the swamps are full of it. But it’s resin content means that it catches flame like a rag soaked in gasoline.”

So far, his description makes it sound a lot like a vampire, she thinks. She almost tells him this, save for that note of regret in his voice. “So why do you look like that’s _your_ fault?”

Klaus glances down at her, from where he has been studying one of the buildings at the corner of Royal and Dumaine with more scrutiny than the rest. “Well, it sort of is. I encouraged the settlers to use it.” He shrugs. “All of this,” he gestures vaguely at the surrounding architecture, “All of this is just what the Spanish rebuilt after the heart of the Vieux Carré was destroyed.” There’s a note in his voice with which she is unfamiliar.

Elena blinks at him. Blinks past the morning sun in her face.

So strange, how he can feel so much for a city, and so little for any of the people he encounters, whose lives he tears apart like a child pulling grass from a field.

Elena clears her throat. “So, what you’re telling me is that the French Quarter’s architecture… is Spanish?”

“A gold star for my lady.” He points to the abundance of fantastical iron wrought balconies lining the street in every direction. “The Spanish had an eye for dramatic flourishes.”

“Which you like, of course.”

He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t deny it, either. 

They pass a hotel with an iron fence whimsically worked to resemble a line of cornstalks. She touches the cool metal lightly. “Is this Spanish?”

“No.” He pauses, then allows. “But it is an excellent hotel. Bit of a ghost problem though.” And with that he pulls her down the street, into a corridor of art galleries.

“We’ve left the residential side of Royal now,” he continues. “Most of the galleries in the Quarter are here, though it’s a bit of a mixed bag.” He brings her over to one window, the better to show her the huge, bright acrylic paintings on display. At this early hour, most of the galleries have not yet opened. He points across the street, where nearly identical paintings hang in the window.

“I can’t tell them apart.”

“Exactly! All rubbish.” There’s a certain dismissiveness in his voice, a _cattiness_ , that makes her remember those stacks of drawings she had found in his library. She wonders.

Klaus takes her hand and leads her to still another gallery, catty-corner to the last one. In the window, a single, tiny painting, perhaps about 6”x10”, has been given center focus.

“And then we have paintings like these. Toulouse-Lautrec.” He breathes the name like a prayer. The painting itself is unassuming. A grey little room, the suggestion of a man in a chair, and spray of sunset pink flowers sitting on a table.

After a moment, Elena stops looking at the painting and starts to look at Klaus as he stares down at it. What is at work there, what thoughts are spinning through that mind? She returns her attention to the painting, tries to see it as Klaus does, lets herself fall into this whole little world of delicate brush strokes and tender rushes of color and surreptitious texture, until a feeling starts to blossom within her as she stares at the ghost of a man alone in his chair, a sort of fixed melancholy blended into something that almost feels like love.

“The subject matter here is unusual for Toulouse-Lautrec,” Klaus murmurs in her ear. “He was fond of the night life, the sorts of subject matter that made everyone blush in public but fascinated them in private.”

The painting starts to pain her to look at it. The flowers are starting to seem that they may be on the cusp of death to her, a bright burst of life and color before they inevitably wither and die.

“Come away, now, sweetheart. There’s a good girl.” He still has a hold of her hand. It’s easy for him to bring her away from that window, but she stares behind her, at the painting, until all she sees is a fleck of color, and then nothing.

They wander, a little longer, but Elena is no longer paying very much attention. Her stomach grumbles, and, knowingly, Klaus directs them to a restaurant. Jazz music filters over to them as soon as Klaus opens the door.

_(If the familiarity of the music reminds her of anything, she does not let the affect show on her face.)_

They’re ushered through to a brick courtyard in the back, the red brick walls surrounding it covered in climbing jasmine, and potted plants and trees making a tropical forest of the space. Water droplets drip from the wide green fronds and catch in rivulets on the ground. Elena thinks it must have rained, sometime during the night.

It should be too cold to sit outside, except the restaurant has set up braziers in the corners, and the sky is so bright and beautiful, the sunshine so inviting, that she is glad just to look up at it. By the placement of the sun, she thinks it must be approaching eleven o’clock.

“So what do I order here?” she asks him.

“Anything you like.”

“But it’s my first meal in _New Orleans_. What’s best?”

“Everything is best.”

But there is _so much_ of everything. Brandy milk punch eye-openers and chicory coffee. Turtle soup and egg yolk carpaccio, Eggs Sardou and baked apples crusted with pecans and brown sugar. Klaus orders her everything she shows the slightest inclination toward, and watches her eat with rapt attention. She would be embarrassed, except that this is the first taste of something _different_ that she has had in months.

Shockingly, an actual jazz ensemble marches out onto the courtyard midway through the meal. She had assumed the music was a recording. They come over to the table, and ask, “What would the lady like to hear?”

“La Vie en Rose,” she blurts out, without thinking. As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she regrets them.

The musicians start up without a hitch, of course, and the romantic, lilting quality of the song makes her blush furiously. She _cannot_ believe she did this with Klaus sitting right across from her.

“Louis Armstrong is a classic,” he tells her approvingly.

“It was a favorite of my mother’s. She used to always request it.”

There’s a long pause.

“The vampire?”

“No, my real mother. The one who raised me.” Elena fiddles with her silverware. “She died, about a year and a half ago. Both of my parents did.”

“What happened?” It’s a vague interest, but nevertheless, Elena cannot _not_ tell this story.

“We were in a car accident. The car went over the bridge.”

“You were in the car with them?” Klaus voices this question very slowly, and deliberately.

Elena nods. “Stefan pulled me out. It’s how we met. I’m surprised he hasn’t told you this before.” But also, not at all surprised. She only actually matters to Klaus in the abstract, she thinks. Her face, her blood, sure. But not her, not really. He would never have asked Stefan about her specifically enough to learn about the accident.  Even if today has been fun, he’s just amusing himself. She could be anyone, and he would still enjoy showing off this place he clearly loves.

“You very nearly died, before I ever knew you even existed.”

_What a pity it would have been if he had never been able to complete the sacrifice,_ she thinks acidly.

The dark whirlwind within her swamps her like a wave, washing away the semblance of happiness she had felt for a few forgetful hours.

She purses her lips, voices the thought that has been just under the surface of her skin ever since it happened. “I should have drowned with them. I think I was supposed to.”

Klaus scoffs. “Clearly not.”

“What do you mean, _clearly not?_ ”

“Your destiny is with me. _That_ is obvious.”

“I wish that it weren’t.”

“Ah, but that’s the fine thing about destiny. What you _wish_ is irrelevant. So, since you cannot change your fate, why not enjoy yourself?”

She ignores his question. Klaus thinks he’s wonderful company, and even if a tiny part of her knows that that is sometimes true, that knowledge only makes it worse that he instead chooses to be a monster most of the time. “I don’t see you following your own advice,” she tells him instead. “ _You_ go out of your way take your fate into your own hands.”

“On the contrary. _My_ fate happens to coincide with my wishes. I wished to break the curse, and it was my destiny that I should do so. It just required some effort, as all thing truly worthwhile do.”

There are a lot of things she could do, with a little effort. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After brunch, they continue winding their way through the Quarter. Elena doesn’t quite regain the thrill she had felt this morning, but she musters enough enthusiasm to enjoy the time while she has it. She wrinkles her nose at Bourbon Street, and is relieved when a detour down St. Ann Street spills them out onto Jackson Square. When she sees it, she laughs with pleasure. It’s like a close up to the thrumming vein of the city she had glimpsed from aboard the boat the night before. The square itself is lined with artists, musicians, fortune tellers, and performers of every kind gathered right there. Part of her would like to have her tarot cards read, but Klaus steers her away toward a saxophonist before she can broach the question.

The sweet smell of beignets wafts over from Café Du Monde, and if she wasn’t so full, and Klaus were not so insistent that some things were better in the still of the evening, she would have been tempted.

Instead, they stroll through the French Market. She fiddles with a silver ring, engraved with a fleur de lis while Klaus picks through a collection of old post cards.

“Do you like it?” Klaus asks her after a moment.

“Yes.”

He surprises her by buying it for her. It’s the first thing she’s had since Mystic Falls that she has picked out herself.

She watches the winter sun sink into the horizon while overlooking the Mississippi. The water is a famously deep brown, true, but the sun glints off the swift current like diamonds, and to Elena, this sweeping view borders on the sublime. She hovers as near to the edge as she dares.   

As the sun gets close to the water, Klaus takes her by the hand and leads her back toward the house.

“Why are we going back so early?” she asks. “Isn’t New Orleans famous for its nightlife?”

“It’ll have to wait, I think. Best to be in before sunset for now.”

He doesn’t say why, but there’s only one thing that haunts the streets by moonlight that might concern Klaus.

“Why did we come to New Orleans?” she asks him when they are back in the house, as she pulls her jacket off.

“I see you’re finished with your sight-seeing, then.”

“Klaus—“

“No need to fret.” He grabs her by the shoulders and forces her to look into his eyes. “Stay inside until I return.” The compulsion settles over her uneasily. It is always an uncomfortable thing, being conscious of the compulsion as it occurs.

And with that, he leaves, locking the door behind him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold, the promised K/E arc—and just in time for Christmas in New Orleans. Thank you everyone for your patience while I worked out some plot details. Any guesses on where this is going? 
> 
> Reviews are the lifeblood of this fic; I love to hear from you all.


	18. Eighteen

 

 

 

 

 

 

_“Do you know why Klaus is dead set on going to New Orleans?” she asks Tyler as they steal an hour together in his room._

_He shrugs from where he is standing, pouring her a drink. At some point he had brought the two glasses down here, and if the glass he hands her still has her lip print on it from the last time, she doesn’t mind._

_“You said you passed through Louisiana on your way back,” she prompts._

_“Yeah, he thought the Loup Garou pack down there would be an easy addition to the fold.”_

_Loup Garou. She files the name away for later. “And?”_

_“There were… complications. I dunno, we were only in New Orleans for like two days. He kept talking about a threat, or a plot or something.” Tyler gestures widely. “You know how he is.”_

_“Paranoid?”_

_“Ranting and raving and breaking things whenever he gets angry. It was hard to follow.”_

_“But he said it was a threat.”_

_Elena takes a long swallow from her glass and uses the motion to think. “But what could possibly be a threat to Klaus_ now _?”_

_Whatever it is, it does not bear thinking upon._

_“You’re really going with him?” Tyler asks after a moment, a distant look in his eyes._

_“Looks like it.”_

_“I don’t like it.”_

_“I can take care of myself.”_

_“I haven’t forgotten my promise.”_

_“What promise is that?”_

_“To hang together. No matter what. I’m going to keep that promise to you, Elena.”_

_She doesn’t see how, when it looks like they’re going to be separated for the foreseeable future. She doesn’t spoil their time together by telling him that, though._

 

 

 

 

Klaus does not return until dawn.

For the first few hours, she paces through the house. 

Now that she is left to her own devices here, in yet another overly grand house, the walls start to close in on her. It’s too much like the other house. Exploring the rooms and memorizing the layout can only distract her for so long.

Deep down, there is a niggling anxiety that she cannot ignore for much longer. Despite herself, she is actually a little worried.

The specter of that unnamed threat that Klaus wouldn’t elaborate upon hangs over her. If Klaus _isn’t_ being paranoid, _isn’t_ hyperbolizing whatever is going on, then that means something momentous must be happening. Something terrifying.

It kills her not to know. She is so used to being at the center of all of these terrible events, that being outside of one just completely throws her for a loop.

Her anxiety only increases as the night grows older. What if Klaus never makes it back?

_What_ if _Klaus never makes it back,_ the pale, watery voice of freedom whispers.

If someone or some _thing_ were trying to take Klaus down, would she dare do anything to impede that force?

_Is there anything she could do to help it?_

Elena marches up to her room. Everything in it is beautifully furnished, from the massive oak sleigh bed to the towering Louis-Philippe armoire and the Italian writing desk. At this hour, the silk drapes have been drawn, so no one passing by on the street can see what she is about.

Carefully, she pulls her emptied duffle bag out from the bottom of the armoire, slips her fingers into the lining and fishes out the sprig of vervain.

The wording of Klaus’s compulsion tonight had been luck. If she starts taking this now, then she would at least have the option of whether or not to obey him in the future. It may prove useful to ignore him sometimes. To slip away.

The problem, of course, is that, in the end, it is only one single sprig of vervain. She doesn’t know how long she is going to be here, or when the most strategic moment to begin ingesting it will be. Conservatively, she thinks she might have enough to last her about ten days if she starts mixing it with her water now. She could double that amount of time by taking it every other day instead, though she knows she will be less protected from compulsion on the second day, possibly without any protection at all depending on how fast her body metabolizes the herb. It would be a gamble, though. The possibility that Klaus might still compel her on a day where she skips her dosage looms over her.

She really, truly wishes that there were an easy way to wear it on her person without Klaus detecting it, but the chances of getting caught are just too high that way for her to risk it. She’s not the only one who would pay if she were caught.

Every other day, then. It would have to be enough. And at least, this way, she could protect whoever had thought she might be deserving of the same. 

Elena finally lets herself fall asleep when she hears Klaus return, the taste of vervain still on her tongue.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“What happened last night?” she asks him the next morning over breakfast. He’s taken her out again, seems to be intent on her finishing every bite on her plate. She doesn’t mind. Grillades and grits are _very_ good, especially accompanied by a Bloody Mary. 

“I thought we decided not to talk about that.”

“You decided not to talk about that, but I never decided not to ask.”

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

“But satisfaction brought it back.”

“Touché. I went to go see an old friend.”

“And?”

“I think it went well.”

That night, Klaus compels her more strictly. “From now on, don’t leave this house unless I am here to escort you.”

It’s a standing compulsion, and she can almost feel the magic of it attempting to fasten into her before sliding off like rain beading down a window.

She thinks this means the reunion did not go so well after all.

After that, he does not bother to compel her when he leaves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He is always gone for hours at a time when he leaves. It’s why she feels confident slipping out herself on the third night he leaves her alone, her fourth night in New Orleans.

She eases out into the cool, humid night air, feeling an immediate loosening of her skin, as though she has been caught in a net all this time and has only just now been freed.

_(She’s not stupid. She knows she’s still caught in a net.)_

She leaves the back door unlocked so she can slip back in before Klaus notices she is gone, and then she hurries down increasingly familiar streets, under the yellow glow of street lights and beneath dripping iron balconies that shade the sidewalks during the day, but at night cast ink dark shadows.

Her mother had always warned her against walking down dark streets, against walking by herself late at night. If only her mother had ever given her a warning that would have prepared her for what her life would really be.

None of that enters into her mind as she hurries toward the front of the Quarter. 

As fast as she can, she hurries to Decatur Street, past Jackson Square and the delicious smells of Café Du Monde, over the train tracks and up onto the side of the levee, where she settles on a bench to watch the river stream by in the moonlight.

Her body thrums with excitement—just the _taste_ of freedom, even if she knows it is a mirage—makes her body spark and flare.

This is the first time she has gone somewhere just because she wanted to.

It’s late at night, so most of the shops on Decatur Street are closing up, though she can hear a trickle of music coming from Bourbon Street a few blocks over. Café Du Monde is open 24/7, though, and the prospect of it, of enjoying this little bit of normal tourism _by herself_ , _under her own power_ , is irresistible.

She gets up to wander over to the café, only to realize she has no money. Hasn’t had any since August.

So it will have to be enough just to watch all of the perfectly ordinary people inside, enjoying their perfectly ordinary evenings. So many things have had to be enough, are not nearly as much as she had thought they would be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Not for the first time, she contemplates whether she would have had an overall happier life if she had stayed dead last May.

 

 

 

 

 

 

None of that matters now. She’ll just have to make do with what she has.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Without a clear destination in mind, she wanders by St. Louis Cathedral and sits down on one of the benches out front, facing the line of fortune tellers set up with folding chairs in the shadow of Jackson Square’s black iron fence. One of them notices her watching them and gestures for her to come over.

In the flickering yellow light from the Cathedral, Elena cannot see the woman’s face well, only the glint of her hard, steady stare, the way her dark hands flutter over her table like birds. The single candle, caught under a filmy glass dome, adds more ambiance than light. 

“Care to learn your fortune?” the woman asks her, her voice like smoke on the changing wind.

“I don’t have any money,” Elena tells her.

The woman cocks her head, studying her. “I think I’ll give you this one for free,” she tells her slowly.

Nothing is ever truly free. Yet there is something here that intrigues her.

Only a little warily, Elena sits down in the empty chair across from the fortune teller. There’s a stack of tarot cards on one edge of the table, but the woman ignores them in favor of taking Elena’s hand and flipping her palm face-up. Her grasp is tight and firm, as though she is used to people letting her have her way here.

No sooner does the woman make contact with her skin than something strange happens—her eyes bulge, and her face blanches grey—her fingers spasm and Elena tries to pull free of her, but the woman only clutches her more tightly.

Those dark eyes pin her in place. “My dear, I don’t think you gave me your name.”

“No.”

“Such a pretty girl.” She twists Elena’s palm toward the candle light. Her voice is light, and she wears a smile on her lips, but her eyes are narrowed, just a slight tightening of the eyelids that Elena might not have noticed if she weren’t getting such a terrible feeling from this woman.

“Let me go.”

“You must have all sorts of men chasing you,” she continues.

Elena yanks at her hand, feels the bite of the woman’s fingernails in her palm. “I said—“

“Is this woman bothering you?”

The fortune teller drops Elena’s hand like it’s a live flame.

Elena turns toward that smooth, pleasant voice and stares up into a smiling, handsome face that makes her heart pound. He’s a tall, powerfully built man, brown of skin and black of eye, with a sort of natural charisma that rolls off of him like the wave of ash before an eruption. That smile is dazzling, she thinks as she stares into his eyes, all perfect straight white teeth, and yet, there is something distinctly _unpleasant_ in that sleek black-eyed gaze. Even though he is dressed casually in jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt, there is some element about his presence that names him king.

“Marcel,” the woman starts, voice low… _pleading?_ “She’s just a tourist girl, wanted to have her palm read.”

“Sure, Agnes. But I think it was the lady I asked.” Marcel looks at her, still smiling that sharp-tip-toothed smile.

“I’m fine,” she says, voice low and firm. She pushes up and away from the table and hurries out of the Square.

Behind her, remnants of their conversation carry on the dark night wind.

_I’d hate to catch you out of bounds._

_I follow the rules, Marcel. Your city, your rules._

_Damn straight. And you know what happens to anyone who breaks the rules._

 

 

 

 

 

Marcel.

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the morning, Klaus suggests a trip down Esplanade. He does not show the slightest inkling that she had escaped.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She does not dare go out the next night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

One day Klaus takes her to Elijah’s plantation outside of the city and leaves her there. It’s a beautiful, grand old home framed by dramatic Ionic columns, with acres of green land and towering live oaks surrounding it, Spanish moss clinging romantically to their branches.

She can see why it would be inconvenient to stay here instead of in the Quarter, but she almost wishes that they had.

“Best to stay out of the way today, I think,” Klaus tells her enigmatically before he leaves. “Don’t leave the grounds, and try to avoid anything obviously dangerous, dueling pistols or the like.” He pauses. “And don’t touch anything that looks like it might be a Dark Object. I wouldn’t fancy coming back to retrieve you and finding you hexed.”

She agrees to everything and waves him away, eager to walk the grounds and explore.

While Klaus had instructed her in the other house never to open a closed door, here she is under no such injunction. Perhaps he has not thought of it, or perhaps he does not care, but the result is that she spends a lot of her alone time picking through the rooms of the house, examining knick-knacks left gathering dust for centuries on the side tables and shelves, rifling through towering chests of drawers and armoires. It strikes her that while the other house, where she had languished for so many months, is large, serviceable, and holds much of Klaus’s personal collection, there is something altogether sterile about its character. Not so this house—no, this _home._

She finds hand-painted playing cards in a drawer in the front parlor. An old trunk shoved into the butler’s pantry reveals a pair of foil fencing blades, pitted with age, and the pair of dueling pistols Klaus had mentioned, badly in need of some oil. In one of the bedrooms, she toys with delicately carved hair combs, holds up a yellow crêpe silk dress edged in black lace at wrists and neck and examines herself in the tarnished mirror. She spreads the skirt out and twirls the material, imagines what it would be like to move in it, to dance in it.

All too clearly, she can imagine them, Klaus, and Rebekah, whiling away their centuries in the parlor, in the courtyard, in the bedroom with the four-post bed draped with delicate netting.

Questions surface and recede, pushed down before she can drive herself mad with them.

_Was Stefan ever here with them? Did he like it? Was he happy? Were they happy?_

_Why did they leave?_

In another room, she pulls out a silver locket, something a woman might wear around her throat. The clasp hasn’t been worked in years, and she has to work her thumb nail under it before it springs open.

Inside, there’s a grainy daguerreotype portrait, sienna and aged ivory. Elijah’s gaze is as arresting here as it is in her memory. 

She doesn’t know where he went, after the sacrifice, but she thinks the fact that he has never shown up since his betrayal is a bad sign. In all probability, she will never see those eyes again in this lifetime.

What would have happened, if he had still been around when Klaus took her? Would he have stopped him? Or would he have gone along with it, content to be a family again, no matter the cost?

She tucks the locket into her pocket, to take it with her when she leaves. It is not the only thing she takes, but it is the only thing she takes for the sake of sentimentality. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She falls asleep quite by accident in what she imagines would be Rebekah’s room if she were here.

She had found Rebekah’s old diary, written in spidery thin flourishes of ink, desiccated petals pressed between the pages. Reading it had been slow going at first, as sometimes the lines slip into French, or some other language she doesn’t recognize, but after a time she had stopped trying to gather each word and relaxed into a rhythm that had absorbed the words in a kind of hazy ardor.

The contents of the diary do not really surprise her. A love story (what other kind of story will Rebekah ever tell?), touching on each minute detail of her lover, his many perfections, his tastes and talents, and his kindnesses toward her. It interests her to read about Elijah, whose presence surprises her, since he had made it seem like he and Klaus hadn’t spoken in centuries and centuries and she can see now that that is not true, no, that their relationship is more like a tide, their love for each other waxing and waning with Klaus’s desire for the moon, the two of them pulling away and leaping toward each other in the inexorable magnetism and repulsion of two elemental forces. The story ends, of course, like every story ends: Klaus, destroying all with his brutal impulse. Defeated by his jealousy, she understands now.

It is not the story Elena had hoped to find, when she snatched this out of the plantation. The likelihood of finding the evidence for the vaguely outlined puzzle pieces floating through her mind to snap together was low all along.

_No one is ever good enough for me,_ Rebekah writes, and Elena can sense the bitter accusation in the words. _J’accuse_. How many other lovers had Klaus extinguished like a guttering flame? How lonely had Rebekah been?

Stefan, it seems, had been the one to break the streak.

She cannot hold it against Rebekah that she had been possessive of that love, when she had been so terribly, exquisitely alone, before that.

Between one page and the next, though, she falls asleep as the night grows long.

The sound of the front door slamming shut startles her awake, with a shiver that rolls up her spine.

Her feet are only clad in a thin pair of socks, and the cold of the wide floor boards sinks into the soles of her feet.

It had surprised her, when she arrived, how cold New Orleans could be in the winter. She had always thought of it as the tropics, warm and sunny. The winters here _are_ humid, but the air is damp and heavy with a water that seeps into her bones and freezes her lungs.

At night, fog billows up from the river and rolls over the streets, obscuring everything in a ghoulish bank of perfect white.

_The humidity,_ Klaus had said.

For Elena, though, it’s nothing so mundane as a meteorological phenomenon; that white fog is the fog that covers her life, that creeps in unexpectedly and fuzzes everything out in blinding, infinite oblivion.

Slowly, she shuffles out of Rebekah’s bedroom, a little wary of being caught out of place even though Klaus has never forbidden it outright.

This may be a mansion by the standards of the French Quarter, but it is not nearly so sprawling as that other house. There are only four bedrooms upstairs, and nowhere near the space to house an army of hybrids or to keep the kinds of secrets that everyone keeps from her elsewhere.

She’s just ducking out from the doorway, darting down the hall toward her own room, when she spots Klaus through the half-open door to his bedroom. His back is to her, and he is in the motion of pulling his shirt over his head, shoulder muscles coiling as he pulls the cloth free, and she can’t help but stop to watch him, in this one moment before he notices she’s there, to study the way he looks when he’s not performing for her and she can just admire the clean lines and lean strength of him.

It’s not a moment that can last forever. Klaus gets the shirt over his head, turns, and sees her watching him.

They stand there, locked into a moment that becomes increasingly molten as it stretches, as it thickens rather than thins.

Elena thinks about how Klaus has been with her the last few days. _Fun_ , really, showing her a place that he so clearly loves, that love etched deep into his face, sunk deep into the low rumble of his voice in her ear. He’s always touching her, too, but where it bothers her _so much_ usually, how careless he is about her, how much he treats her like an object, it’s different, here. He’s so focused on showing _her_ the city, on watching _her_ reactions, on delighting in _her_ enjoyment, that for the first time it really feels like he’s seeing her, treating her, like a person rather than as his most prized possession. As _Elena_ rather than as his doppelganger. The touches are little things, his hand guiding her to the next stop, the next sight, the crook of his arm during the cold nights when they meander home. It’s easy to imagine that this is something else, when he is like that— she imagines people on the street must think they are lovers, enjoying each other, enjoying this place together, enjoying each other in this place. 

She had wanted to forget, and it seems like this city has cast its spell on her after all, because she finds, with him standing before her, beautiful and half-naked and staring at her so ravenously, she doesn’t remember what her objections are at all. It’s all a fuzz.

Who moves first is all unclear to her—it must have been her, she thinks, because she finds herself in his room, her hands ghosting over his chest, nearly touching but not quite the shape of his muscles, the outline of dark ink over his collarbone, a tattoo she hadn’t even realized he had until today, and she wonders, what had been important enough about those birds that he had wanted to mark his immortal flesh with it? He lets her, lets her feel the heat radiating from his flesh, the electric current that passes just under her fingertips, a breadth between them narrower than a needle’s tooth.

When he grips her, finally, _finally_ , his fingers crush into her arms, and she can feel each bruise forming as he drags her to him.

Her heart slams against her ribs, a painful, painful thud as she waits for— _something_ —a kiss or a bite, she doesn’t know—but what she gets is his nose, dragging across the line of her neck, to the hinge of her jaw, the whisper of his breath against her neck as he scents her, and then his lips are moving, very lightly, almost not there at all, as he mouths at the spot on her neck where he had kissed—no, _bitten her_ —last spring.

Elena wilts in his grasp, one of those vivid pink flowers dead in his hands.

“Elena.”

The hand on her shoulder grows firmer, more insistent, almost like he’s shaking her—

She opens her eyes and blinks up into Klaus’s face hovering over her. There’s a curl to the corner of his mouth, like he’s almost smiling, but it’s gone between one blink and the next.

Elena sits up, leaning hard on her hands, and feels a paper tear under her palm. She’s still in the third bedroom, the diary under her hand.

Klaus raises his eyebrows. There’s a smear of blood behind his ear, but he doesn’t seem to realize it.

She shifts, and feels a throb between her legs that she covers with a cough.

Klaus passes her a glass of water, and it should be creepy, that he’s bringing her water, or maybe it’s weirdly sweet, she’s starting to lose track. Dreams are starting to bleed into reality. She just can’t keep the two straight anymore.

“I came to check in on you, but you weren’t in your boudoir,” he offers by way of explanation. Leaves it on the table for her to pick up and explain.

“It’s dull here by myself every night.”

“I doubt Bex will appreciate you pawing through her personal items.”

“Then I’m lucky that you won’t tell her. Since we agree she’s a psychopathic toddler.”

“I don’t believe I did agree to that.” He says that, but he’s laughing. Amused by her audacity, she would wager.

She makes a lot of wagers these days.

“It was implicit.”

“Then we’re in agreement that neither of us will mention this to my dear sister. Best not to provoke her more than is inevitable.”

Truthfully, even though she knows it’s inevitable, Elena doesn’t like reminders that they’re going to return to that other house where she has no escape from her past or her heart. The idea of facing Stefan again, of Stefan _with_ Rebekah, feels like too much to bear.

“Why is it inevitable?” she asks him, because she needs to distract herself.

“Because I would never have any fun if I never provoked her. Rebekah’s ambitions can be frightfully prosaic if she’s left to have her way.”

“Prosaic in what way?”

Klaus leads her back toward her bedroom. Watches as she pulls her socks off, slinks into a pull over sweater.

“She’s always wanting to play at being _ordinary_.”

“Ordinary doesn’t sound so bad.”

He eyes her. “You’re right, it doesn’t sound bad, it sounds downright abysmal.”

“Why do you feel such a strong need to be extraordinary?” she asks suddenly.

He opens his mouth, but no answer comes to him right away. Finally, he tells her, “Because I am. And it’s satisfying to let others know it, those who sought to deny it, to deny me, to destroy me.” He turns toward the door. “Sleep well.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Living with Klaus is surprisingly easy. He’s charming and fun and interesting and they don’t talk too much about difficult topics. Elena pretends they are different people, spends her time with him imagining who they might be instead of who they are. Often, she finds herself slipping into those roles unconsciously, the girlfriend, the socialite, the tourist, as though she really were any of those women she daydreams about being instead of who she is. Sometimes, she goes whole hours without remembering.

The dreams are probably the most difficult part for her to deal with. They’ve been a persistent problem, for months now.

The night after she had fallen asleep in Rebekah’s room, she really does pass by Klaus changing with the door to his bedroom left just slightly ajar. She stands there, transfixed by the sight of him, until he looks up and catches her watching. The full-body blush that rips through her is probably detectable for him, something his predator’s senses can pick up at such a short distance, and the thought that it’s not just embarrassment making her flush only makes it worse.

Klaus is kind enough not to mention it to her though, which frankly surprises her. She is often surprised by him, these days.

 

 

 

 

 

 

They continue like this for two weeks.

Klaus takes her to Preservation Hall to see the live jazz band, to dinner on the decks of a steamboat so they can watch the twinkling lights of the city from the river, and for a ride on the St. Charles street car line into the Garden District with its towering live oaks shading the streets. When they visit the Louisiana State Museum at the Cabildo, he spends the afternoon murmuring his revisions and annotations to the city’s history in her ear. The rasp of his voice so close behind her sends a shiver up her spine that she just barely represses.

Christmas lights start going up around town. She learns about reveillon dinners, about the decadent Christmas meals enjoyed late into the night.

Sometimes he brings her back early, at two or three in the afternoon, and returns some hours later, to ask her if she would like to venture out again. Other times he is out all night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

On the thirteenth night he says, “Why don’t you wear one of those dresses I had made for you?”

And so it is that Elena finds herself bedecked in a glimmering midnight blue cocktail dress, crystals hand sewn into the gossamer thin layers of the skirt.

Klaus, of course, looks distractingly handsome in a dark suit and tie. He offers her his arm, and, after two weeks of sight-seeing with him, she barely hesitates to take it.

The restaurant he takes her to turns out to be one of the old line _grande dames_ , as Klaus puts it, tucked away on Bourbon Street where it could almost go unnoticed between the bars and the strip clubs.

But once Elena steps inside, it’s a little bit like what she imagines stepping into another century must be like. White lace curtains block out the sights and sounds of Bourbon Street. Instead, the enormous rectangular room, green papered walls lined with mirrors all around, reverberates with the chatter and laughter from a veritable sea of tables. From one end of the room, a large grandfather clock tolls the hour. The lazy swoop of the ceiling fans provides only a faint circulation, and the white octagonal floor tiles are slick under her heals.

The waiter leads them to a table alongside one of those mirrored walls, where Elena has the opportunity to watch everyone around her as they leave their tables to visit other groups, as though they may all know each other. She wonders if maybe they do, and if the mirrors were put in for just this purpose. Klaus has always been fond of playing _who’s who_.

It’s almost impossible to hear anything clearly over the clamor of voices, but there is a general spirit of hilarity that Elena finds impossible to fight against.

“What do we drink here?” she asks Klaus once they settle.

“Oh, I think a Sazerac will do, don’t you?”

It’s a drink they’ve ordered before—he’d taken her to the Roosevelt Hotel two days ago for just that purpose. It still astonishes her how many places she has gone to just for a sip or a taste of a specific specialty.

The three fingers of whiskey warms every part of her when she swallows, makes her feel like flames are licking at the inside of her chest, down the soft insides of her arms.

The waiter never brings them a menu, but it doesn’t matter because Klaus orders for her without asking what she might like, as is his habit, and she has to admit that she has grown accustomed to trusting his recommendations. Delicately fried oysters wrapped in bacon, creamy shrimp remoulade, lump crabmeat, and soufflé potatoes arrive with piping hot French bread that Klaus insists comes from a bakery in the alley behind the restaurant. Another round of Sazeracs replaces the first, and then another round sometime after that, and the grandfather clock continues to toll. A waiter clinks a spoon against a water glass at the front of the room, and before Elena realizes what is happening, the entire restaurant belts a raucous rendition of _Happy Birthday_. This happens four more times before the main course makes it onto the table, and by that time, Elena has started to laugh and make exaggerated, grimacing faces as she serenades. Klaus watches her, sings along in good humor, and by the time they have finished their fish, and Klaus has murmured some sort of dessert instructions to their waiter, Elena slumps forward on her elbows, one of her shoes slightly kicked off, the pump just barely hanging onto the tips of her toes. She’s not sure how many hours they have been here, because time has lost its meaning in this mirrored room.

It’s so easy to be happy here, in this eternally momentary life. So easy to just enjoy herself, to push all of the angst and the ennui she had felt so sharply before they came here down down down inside of herself, so deep she doesn’t know if she can even access it. It’s easy here, to forget who she is, who Klaus is, and to just focus on how handsome he looks, the way his mouth crooks and the dimple on his cheek jumps when he talks to her. She wonders if he forgets too, the way he treats her like his companion, not his hostage or worse, his tool.

Idly, she wonders what it would be like to kiss him again.

“It’s good to see your spirits are improving.”

“Hm?”

“I’m glad to see you looking so much better than you did a few short weeks ago.”

She shrugs at him. “I like it better here than I did there.”

“That’s because you’ve proven to have impeccable taste, my dear.” Even the way he says _that_ sounds different to her ears.

“Did you bring me here because you thought I’d like it?” The idea makes her feel warm, the way her Sazerac had on the first swallow.

He hums noncommittally, swirls his drink around in his glass, the ice clinking against the sides. “A bit of a restorative seemed in order. You looked… not yourself, when I returned. I don’t usually like that, finding things different from how I left them.” He takes a slow sip of his drink before he continues, his eyes never leaving hers. “I must admit I am curious though….Just between us girls… What precisely happened while I was away? To have cast your spirits so low?”

A lick of ice slides down her chest. She frowns at him. “What does that matter?”

“It doesn’t, really, but indulge me.”

Does it hurt, that he asks for her to reveal this wound to him, not quite healed, as though none of it is of any consequence whatsoever? It does. Of course it does.

“I know about you and Stefan and Rebekah, you know,” she tells him.

Klaus raises his eyebrows. “What of us?” His voice oozes boredom, but his eyes, intense as blue flames, never leave hers. Oh, he cares.

“So, _I know_. And when you were gone, and it was just Stefan and Rebekah and me in the house, I had a lot of time to think about it, and I realized that I couldn’t keep on like I was. I couldn’t keep trying to hold on to Stefan, because if it comes down to a tug-of-war for him between us, I won’t win.” That’s only half a truth. The reality is that she wouldn’t lose, either; it would just be Stefan, torn apart in the middle of it all. “I realized that it’s really over between Stefan and me. That it’s been over for a long time.”

“That’s all? A little heartache?”

“It wasn’t a little,” she snaps. Then, more quietly, “Rebekah hardly made it easy, either.” She licks at her lips, feels the dimpled scar over her lip.

“Yet New Orleans has been good for you. You seem to have gotten over it.” He gestures at her.  “You’re eating again, regaining your health.”

She nods, because all of _that_ , all of those _feelings_ , belong to another place, to whom sometimes through the fog of her daydreaming and internal role-playing seems another girl. Yet something Klaus says catches her up, a hairline tripwire that she cannot quite ignore.

“What do you mean, _regaining my health_? I never lost it.”

He _tsks_ her. “Sure you did. I left you hale and whole, and when I came back you’d grown too thin, and had that horrid mark on your face. Not to mention you skipped your cycle this month. Not a good sign, _that_. Much too thin.”

Elena’s mouth gapes open. “What do you mean, _I missed my cycle this month? Are you keeping track?_ ”

“Obviously.”

“No, not obviously!”

“It’s hardly difficult.” He taps his nose. “Oh, come on now, don’t act so affronted, sweetheart, it’s the same with all human women. Any vampire would be aware.”

God, is she mortified. She smothers the part of her just _dying_ inside from embarrassment at the idea that Stefan and Damon had been inadvertently privy to all of those details.

“Wait, why do you even care though?” she presses through this onslaught of seriously unwanted information.

“I need to keep track, to make sure you are healthy enough.”

Oh. That kind of made sense. Part of his obsession with making sure she was fit and healthy and would go on to live a long life as his personal blood bank.

Except. _Too_ thin, he had said.

“Healthy enough for what?” she asks him blankly. 

At that moment the waiter returns with an assistant in tow. The assistant waiter carries an enormous silver punch bowl, which he sets down on the edge of the table. Elena is half distracted by him, watching him as he lights afire the thick brown liquid inside the bowl, filled with orange and lemon peel, and what smells like cloves and cinnamon. The whole contents erupt into blue flame as Klaus gives his answer. She sees him through the flames as he speaks. _She is always seeing him through the flames._

“Oh, to have your child, of course. You’ll need to continue the Petrova line, and I’d rather get that part over and done with sooner rather than later, don’t you think? Best not to leave these things to chance. Would be a terrible shame if something were to happen to you beforetime, and no heir yet born.”

Elena feels a terrible lurching sensation, that starts at the pit of her stomach and radiates outward. Suddenly, her time in New Orleans is illuminated in painfully sinister light. 

She had been so eager to forget herself that she had forgotten who Klaus is, and that is _always_ very, very dangerous.

The waiter stirs the flames, which leap ever higher with each pass of the silver punch ladle. Vaguely, she wonders if Klaus has compelled him to ignore their conversation, or if he is just very discreet, because he does not respond to their bizarre topic at all.

“Is that what this is about? The food, the entertainments, this _entire trip_?”

“Strictly speaking, this is a business trip. But as you may recall, I did tell you that I would be bringing you along because you were too thin and too pale. When I first let you know.”

She had been daydreaming about kissing him while he calculated yet another way to use her.

Numbly, Elena accepts a small coffee cup from the waiter and, at Klaus’s urging, takes a sip. Brandy and coffee and spices explode on her tongue. Carefully, she sets the cup down, watches Klaus take his first sip.

“Café Brûlot. A house specialty. Drink up, it’s best while it’s hot.”

_It’s best while it’s hot. Your hands are ice cold._

She takes another sip, but the cup clatters in the saucer when she tries to put it back down. “I don’t want to have a baby,” she tells him, somewhat stupidly. She feels stupid, like she can’t piece any two thoughts together.

“Be that as it may, you’re going to.” Klaus tilts his head, studies her. “Would it truly be that bad?” He gestures around the room, seems to focus in on a handsome blond college student two tables over, who looks lean and tall. “You could take him to bed, for example, or perhaps that fellow over there,” he points out a different blond boy in a green wool jacket, this one slightly more filled out than the last, eyes a shade bluer, but similar over all in appearance.  “It doesn’t really matter who fathers the next Petrova. You could have your pick of the lads.” Every potential prospect Klaus points out fits the same physical mold. “You may even enjoy yourself,” Klaus continues.

Distantly, she wonders why Klaus wants to do this the old-fashioned way when surely it would be easier to do this with a donor. There’s something to that which she’s not ready to face. The thought is distant, though, the kind of white noise that underlies a rising panic.

She knows why he is pointing those particular men out.

“I’m too young.”

He rolls his eyes. “A moot point. Tatia and Katerina were younger both when they had theirs.”

“I don’t want—“

“Just one child. And it’s not as though you would raise it.”

This child she doesn’t even want to have would be ripped away from her as soon as she drew her first breath. Klaus wouldn’t want an infant around. He just needed that infant to be born.

In her mind’s eye, she can see it, this ill-favored child she would bear in blood and pain and loneliness, this child she would never hold, never love, who would be whisked away from her and raised by strangers. _Just like Katerina_.

And then, five hundred years from now, there would be another doppelganger. Another girl whose life would be ruined, taken from her, destroyed by this cursed face, and it would be _all her fault_.

She licks her lips and realizes that Klaus is still passing men by her.

“I prefer brunettes,” she tells Klaus, just to get him to shut up.

It works, beautifully, and his silence allows her to finish her café brûlot with enough space to _think._

He pays soon after, the hilarity and spirit of the evening quashed by Klaus’s revelations. When he offers his arm to her for the walk back home, she takes it knowing that it is just an empty habit, the same eerily polite gesture from days gone by that really means nothing. And when he cannot help himself, _has_ to tell her about what Marie Laveau had really been like as they pass some spot or another, she listens, and asks him questions, and knows that he would tell anyone this, that he’s not telling her anything because he wants to tell _her_ , Elena specifically, but that he is just trying to raise her spirits enough so she’ll eat and sleep and rest and gain enough weight back in order to carry a viable pregnancy.

How terribly she had misread him. How terribly she had let herself be deceived.

They’re only home for a few minutes, long enough for him to change, before he slips out again into the night, telling her not to wait up for him.

Elena paces the halls for twenty minutes, before she, too, slinks out into the night.

Without even paying very much attention she ends up where she had gone a few nights before. Elena stands on the edge of the levee, looking down the long drop to the glittering black waters of the Mississippi. They call it the Lazy Mississippi, but Elena knows better. She can sense the power of this river from where she stands, a swift churning current that will suck her under in a heartbeat.

She thinks about that child she does not want to have. Will not have. Of that distant descendent whose fate she will seal.

(It is one thing to damn herself to this life. Another thing entirely to damn another.)

She thinks about herself, too. About all of the things she used to hope and dream for, all of the things she was going to do, going to be, and knows, really _knows_ , that she never will.

_You’ve always been so clever about finding a loophole—or tearing everything apart to make one, if you have to._

She cannot think of Stefan right now.

Only the dark suction of the water, that temptation of black cold water that she cannot ignore forever, that has been in her, lapping against her soul, ever since her parents died and she _didn’t_ , only that fills her, with a cool, clear certainty that tastes nearly like joy, like utter despair.

Elena throws herself from the edge.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of your reviews. It is so lovely to hear from all of you! 
> 
> Also, side note, so surprised that this fic has now surpassed After the Fire, But Before the Flood in length. And guys. We still have such a way to go. How did I ever think this was going to be a 20k fic?!?
> 
> Follow me on tumblr @ livlepretre for KE shenanigans


	19. Nineteen

 

 

 

 

 

 

_He’s alive?_

_So it would appear._

_Nick, what you’re saying cannot be true. Marcel would never—_

_How do you know what someone would or wouldn’t do, if he were abandoned by his family?_

 

 

 

 

 

The hand that snatches her back closes around her arm like iron. She can hear the _whoosh_ of wind whipping past her ears as someone drags her back onto the levee, from where she had dangled for a heartbeat over the open water.

Angry at being rescued, at being condemned to the future Klaus envisions for her _(alone, alone, so totally, completely alone forever),_ Elena reaches out and blindly slaps the person holding on to her. Her hand strikes, a full-armed backswing, and the shock of contact sends reverberations shooting all up her arm and into her shoulder.

“Whoah now, what do you think you’re doing?” a voice like velvet night, smooth as whiskey, asks her. There’s something about that warm, calm voice that niggles at Elena’s mind.

She looks up into the face of the man who had pried her from the fortune teller that night, in what had quickly turned into a strange and unsettling interlude—Marcel.  

“Let me go,” she demands.

“So you can throw yourself into the river? No thanks, I’m not in the habit of letting beautiful women I’ve just saved drown themselves.” He stares down at her. “Stop struggling, will you?”  

Elena glares at him, but continues trying to break free from him. There’s no good comeback for what he had said. She _had_ been trying to drown herself, and that still seems like the most sensible course of action to her. To return her body to the water. She would prefer to die in water than in flames.

Marcel frowns at her. “Say, aren’t you that girl Agnes was bothering the other night?” He nods to himself when she doesn’t answer. “You are, aren’t you.”

“The fortune teller? I don’t know what she wanted.”

He cocks his head and studies her. “Don’t tell me whatever fortune she sold you is what had you jumping into the river.”

He has the same trick as Klaus of making the extraordinary, the unwieldy, seem small and every day and ultimately inconsequential. All of her emotion, her hopelessness, the pricked bubble of her happiness here, temporary, ephemeral, impossible to recapture after Klaus has knocked the veil of companionship and connection away, all of that is rendered small and amusing in this stranger’s eyes, like he can find the warmth and humor in any situation, no matter how dire. On a purely gut level, she both likes him and loathes him for it in equal measure.

And yet, when she turns to stare him in the eyes, ready to snap back at him, something in him softens, a little, and he tells her, “You must be the saddest girl in New Orleans.”

The sincerity in his words strikes her, and though they should seem overblown, ridiculous, they don’t. She thinks she might be. His words make it suddenly difficult to keep back a ratcheting sob. It’s got to be well after midnight, and she’s sobering, riding that dangerous low as the alcohol filters out of her bloodstream.

“Why do you say that?” The question nearly sticks in her throat, thick with tears as it is, yet when it does come, it’s soft, with a vulnerability that suggests even the slightest hint of malice will destroy her. She hates that she sounds like that, cannot help that she sounds like that.

“Only reason a girl like you would throw herself into the Mississippi were if her heart were broken.” He’s still staring at her, too intently for comfort. _Fixing her face in his mind._

She scrubs furiously at her cheeks and tries to pull away from him. “I’m not doing this over a guy.”

“I never said you were.” 

“I have my reasons.”

“Sure you do. Everyone does.” He pauses a moment, studying her. “Do you want to talk about it?” He gestures behind him, to the twinkling lights of Café Du Monde. “In my experience, there’s nothing coffee and donuts can’t fix.”

Vividly uncomfortable, she tries again to shrug out of his grasp, but his hold on her is implacable in a frighteningly familiar way. His skin burns hot through the thin layer of her coat. The moonlight catches his ring, set with a tell-tale blue stone.

She _should_ be frightened of this Marcel, this person who apparently makes the rules here, who has taken a sudden and determined interest in her. _(Whom she is pretty sure she has heard Klaus and Rebekah whispering about in dark corridors.)_ But she’s not, because she’s already faced her nightmares and discovered that no, there is no waking up, there is only this. And she had wanted to try a beignet, to sit in one of the little folding chairs under the awning and watch the city go by.

Perhaps there is still time for that, and she can throw herself into the river afterwards, when Marcel has left her alone.

“Okay.”

She lets him lead her down to the little café, and settles herself in. A stripe of white powdered sugar stains the bodice of the beautiful blue dress when she leans carelessly against the table, and more drifts down like snow into the folds of the skirt as she settles it over her knees.

Marcel lounges back in his chair, imminently at ease, as he studies her.

He studies her, and she has the uncanny feeling that his eyes take in everything about her. The direct way she meets his gaze, the scar on her lip, the defiant tilt to her chin, the pounding of her pulse in her throat, and, from the way his eyes linger, the silvery-white raised scars crisscrossing the flesh there.

“I’m Marcel, by the way,” he tells her, totally at ease with himself. “I don’t think I ever caught your name.”

“Elena.”

“I haven’t seen you around before. Are you visiting?” he asks, instead of the questions she can see percolating behind that warm, reassuring smile.

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“That’s an odd answer.”

“It’s not up to me.”

“Ah. So you’re here with someone then?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Boyfriend?”

Elena’s mouth twists. “Decidedly no.”

He looks like he wants to pursue that, but the waitress appears, dressed in a green apron with a white cap, just in time to save Elena the awkward dancing around an explanation.

Marcel glances at her. “You drink coffee, right?”

Elena nods.

He gives the waitress that brilliant white smile. “Two orders of beignets, and two café au laits.”

When he turns back to her, he looks like he’s going to continue his earlier questioning. Elena cuts him off.

“Do you live in the Quarter? I’ve seen you around here twice now.” 

“Sure. Favorite place in the city is right here, neighborhood where I grew up.”

She stirs her finger through a pile of powdered sugar leftover from someone else’s order. “Doesn’t seem very kid friendly.”

“Truth be told, it wasn’t. I had a family to look after me, though, so it worked out, more or less.”

“Hm.” That’s more than interesting, in light of what she’s heard. Ruthlessly, she suppresses her curiosity. The power plays going on in this city are neither here nor there for her.

She thinks about her own family, her parents, in the pitch dark waters of Virginia, their hair like seaweed in the gloom, the last time her father had held her hand.

“There it is again.”

“What?”

“That sadness.”

He plants his hands palms down on his knees and cocks his head. “You don’t have a family to look after you?”

“No.” She tries to clear her throat. “They’re—they’re all gone, now.”

He nods, taking her in stride as easily as she suspects he takes absolutely everything else. Perhaps it was growing up here, or perhaps it is just who Marcel is. “That’s hard.” Normally, that would just be a platitude, but she gets the strong sense that Marcel is being completely honest with her.

“It is,” she tells him, a crack of surprise lancing through her at how earnestly _relieved_ she is, to have someone _really_ listening to her, sincerely acknowledging her feelings.

There’s an ease to being with him, sitting quietly and letting the world go by, that she hadn’t anticipated when she agreed to join him.

She doesn’t dare let her guard down, not with this stranger, but there’s a fierce reality to this moment that grounds her unmoored soul.

The waitress comes by and sets their orders in front of them, and Marcel pays. Gingerly, Elena picks up the hot beignet, takes her first bite and promptly inhales a clot of powder sugar that she has to cough up.

Marcel laughs at her.

Astonishingly, she laughs with him. It happens faster than she can think, a reflex just like breathing. 

“You remind me of someone. A girl I know,” he tells her, tapping his finger against his white glazed coffee cup.

The statement makes her freeze up. She dreads what Marcel might say next. Careless of her, to forget.

“Yeah? How so?” she asks carefully.

Marcel notices the shift in her. Of course he does. He’s been singularly focused on her this entire time.

“This girl—she’s a tough one, the way I suspect you are. But beneath that, she’s just a girl. That’s the miracle in her, that she can still find it in herself to be a girl after everything she’s been through. That she’s strong enough to go on. To laugh.”

Definitely not a description of Katherine. She forces herself to relax, even as irritation with him sparks through her. “You’re projecting a lot on to me. You don’t even know me.”

He shrugs. Looks like he’s about to go on.

And suddenly she is tired of this. Sobering up, beginning to feel ill with how she had nearly drowned herself, yet careening back and forth in a nervous see-saw between wanting to go through with it still and wanting to get as far from the river as she can. She decides it must be time to cut to the heart of the matter.

“Why did you stop me earlier?”

He tilts his head back and studies her through his lashes. His words sound almost lazy when he says, “Don’t you think I’d save anyone? Out of the goodness of my heart? What kind of a person wouldn’t?” Lazy, the way a lion is lazy before it goes for the throat.

“Maybe.” She knows what kind.

If she looks up, she knows she’ll catch him still looking at her, staring the way that lion would stare, all intent and suppressed action. Instead of meeting those eyes, she looks away from him, out into the night, where the levee blocks the river from her view. A set of concrete steps winds up the side, over a set of railroad tracks, before meandering onto the riverwalk.

“You don’t have a lot of faith in your fellow mankind, do you?”

She purses her lips.

“Is that it, then? Life is nasty, brutish, and short?”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

He leans forward. “Why did I save you?” He nods to himself. “Okay. Let’s make a deal, then—I answer your question, you answer mine.”

Negotiations. There’s something almost comforting about the idea, something familiar and easy.

Her thoughts race. “Sure. But I get to ask a follow up question before I answer yours.” He wouldn’t have made the offer in the first place unless there is something that he wants, something she could give him. Some reason for this interview beyond mere chance and the kindness of strangers. She’s banking on that more heavily than she would like to, but she’s faced steeper odds before with more implacable adversaries than this.

“That’s not playing fair,” he chides her.

“Who said anything about fair? Now answer my question.”

When Marcel smiles, it is very, very hard to look away.

“I noticed you up by the river before you jumped. Recognized you from the other night, with Agnes. When I saw you make ready to throw yourself in… Well. I knew I couldn’t let that happen without at least talking to you first.”

“And because it was out of the goodness of your heart.”

“Oh, most definitely.” And the weird thing is, he sounds totally sincere. _And she believes him!_

By their terms she gets one more question. She’d love to ask him why he wanted to talk to her, why he’s bothering to talk to her now, is certain, even, that that’s where he expects her to go, but she has more important mysteries to solve.

“What exactly did Agnes mean last week when she told you, _your city, your rules_?”

He pauses. Because he is thinking of telling her the truth, or because he wants her to think that he is?

“Brave or stupid,” he mutters to himself.

“What?”

“I’ve been trying to decide, since I first saw you earlier tonight, wandering all alone in the most dangerous city in America, if you were brave or stupid.”

“You’re trying to get around answering my question.”

“I’m not. It’s just, I think I now know which one.”

She ignores the bait. It’s irrelevant. “And my question? What does that mean, that you set the rules?”

He leans back and spreads his arms. “Just what it said. It’s my city, my home, and I rule everyone within it, one way or another.”  

“What, like you’re the prince of the city or something?” She says it lightly, like it’s patently ridiculous, except she knows how possible it truly is with his type. Something in his tone tells her that it is so—he really does _rule_ here.

“I’m not the Prince. I’m the King.” He’s oddly emphatic when he tells her this.

“Why that distinction?”

He wags a finger at her. “Nuh-uh-uh. My turn.”

She pushes away from where she had realized she has been leaning over the table toward him, drawn like iron to a magnet, slinks all the way back in her seat as she waits for what Marcel may want from her.

Marcel stares at her for what seems a very long time before he speaks. “Are you here with Klaus Mikaelson?” He asks her this point blank.

“What?”

“You’ve got bite scars on your neck, you’re on vervain, and like I said, I rule here. That’s why I know that the only new vampire to come to town is Klaus. Right around the same time you showed up. So. Are you here with Klaus?”

If she needed confirmation on who Klaus has been tangling with, she has it for certain now.

_I’m the King._ No, Klaus wouldn’t like that at all.

Vaguely, she wonders when it was that he had tried to compel her. Shakes her head to clear the thought away. Unimportant.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She stands up to leave, but Marcel grabs hold of her arm quicker than she can blink.  “Let me go.”

“Not until you answer my question. And don’t lie. I’ll know it if you do.” He never says the word vampire, but it’s there between them, just the same. He knows that she knows.

Elena glares at him through slitted eyes. “I’m not here because I want to be, believe me.”

“Is that a confirmation?”

Elena sits back down and he releases her. “Yes.”

“What does Klaus want with a girl like you?” He squints at her. “And how does a nice girl like you end up with Klaus? Wouldn’t you rather be off at college?”

“That’s high school, actually, thanks. I was supposed to be a senior this year, but Klaus pulled me out.”

“Shit. You’re just a kid.”

“I haven’t been a kid in a long time.”

“No. I guess not.”

The seconds tick by with neither of them saying anything. Marcel still hasn’t touched any of his food, and the taste of the café au lait has begun to grow bitter on Elena’s tongue. She thinks about trying to leave again, except… Except some instinct, some nugget of pure insight, passed down from Katerina Petrova herself, compels her to stay and wait for where Marcel is going with this.

As though plucking the thoughts from her head, Marcel tells her, “I never met Katerina Petrova. Never saw a portrait of her either. But Klaus described her to me often enough.” More than anything, she wants to escape this moment. And yet—his words, indisputably the most dangerous he could choose to utter, prove hypnotic, a dark sucking pull from which she cannot tear herself away. “He was prone to these black, black moods, because of her. Told me all about the doppelganger he failed to sacrifice, how he’d be cursed to be only half himself forever. But that’s changed now, hasn’t it? So.” And here, that casual air Marcel had adopted all evening falls away from him like a cloak. “Klaus shows up in New Orleans after a century on the run, a hybrid at last, and who does he bring with him? A human girl who matches Katerina Petrova’s description exactly.”

There must be something he wants from her, she thinks, fighting the gnawing urge to _run_. Something he can’t or he won’t just take, or else they wouldn’t be sitting here, having this conversation under twinkling white lights. Negotiations are far from over. Everything is fine.  

“Is this a threat?” she asks carefully.

“No, actually. It’s an invitation.”

“To what?”

“I’m throwing a party at my place next week. Night of the solstice. Klaus’ll be there. Can you get him to take you?”

“Unlikely. If you haven’t noticed, he doesn’t take me out when he goes to see you and do” —she gestures vaguely—“whatever it is you do together.” She really does not want to dwell on what they might get up to together. “Wait, Klaus is going to your party? I thought you were enemies.”

“Oh, we are. Neither of us ever says that out loud though.”

Enemies, maybe, but also family. Klaus had called him that, would not have said it if he hadn’t meant it. He was so selective about that word.

Unbidden, she wonders if this will be Stefan, one day, plotting to overthrow the old monster.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want your help. I have a witch, Elena. A strong one. With your blood, she can channel the power of the solstice in order to bind Klaus’s power—a reversal of the spell from the sacrifice.”

“I suppose I couldn’t come with you tonight,” she muses. “He’d tear the city apart to look for me.” The wind changes direction, whipping the cold night air under the café canopy. “How long have you known I was the doppelganger?”

“Not for certain until tonight. But that didn’t stop me from speculating.”

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“Because I want Klaus out of my city. He bit one of my guys ten days ago, and just because he cured him in the end, doesn’t mean he will next time. He’s a walking chaos agent, and I like things orderly.” He leans forward, hands braced against the sides of the table. “And Elena, one of my rules?” He waits for her to meet his eyes. “We don’t mess with kids. Don't throw your life away, Elena. Help me see justice is done.”

She looks away from him. Justice. She would like that. And yet, she still doesn’t really know if she can trust him. Worse, this plan may be doomed to fail. If so, wouldn’t it be better to tell Klaus everything, to fall on her sword and hope and pray it gets her enough goodwill to make sure to continue protecting her loved ones from his wrath? What he would do if she tried to betray him in this and failed does not bear thinking upon. Except— the thought of that future, where she keeps on as his pet and blood-donor, crushes something deep and yearning within her.

She has no idea what she will do when the appointed time arrives. But, sitting across the table from a powerful vampire, there is only one possible answer she can give.

“I’ll help you.”

He smiles, one of those great eye-crinkling ones that she bets can get him anything he wants.

Marcel had said he would know if she lied.

He had never realized though—She is a master liar.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and for all of the wonderful reviews! I have to admit, I’ve been working on this chapter since like July (how do you write Marcel and Elena, they never interact ever?!), but I am so happy it’s finished and the scheming has commenced!! What do you think—will Elena betray Klaus, or Marcel? 
> 
> Lots of Klaus in next chapter.


	20. Twenty

 

 

 

 

 

 

A canopy of Christmas lights twinkles overhead as Elena hurries back to the pink stucco house.  A shimmering rainbow of soft white and pink and blue and green against the clear black of the night sky, shining down from the boughs of wrought iron balconies. Their light just barely filters down to where she passes by on the sidewalk underneath, a shadow slipping through the night.

Marcel has given her his promise that he will not follow her, and though she should not, she believes him.

_“If any vampire waylays you,” he tells her as they part, “you tell him you’re under my protection, got that?”_

There’s only one vampire on her mind this night. Or lately, it seems, any night at all.

The lights twinkle softly, and inky clouds skate over the milk white face of the waxing gibbous moon, and Elena’s heart pounds like thunder in her chest, a deep rolling boom that drums ever faster as she approaches the house she shares with Klaus.

She has stayed out much later than she had planned to _(she had never planned to return at all)_.

If Klaus has returned ahead of her, she has no defenses ready.

And yet the gate is still unlatched, as she left it. Cool moon shadows play over the puddled water on the old brick walkway from an early evening shower. The potted plants ringing the courtyard drip as she skirts by them to the door that she’d left open beneath the gallery. Not against her return, but in a moment of reckless carelessness.

It’s terribly easy to slip back in, to return as though she has always meant to, as though she has always been here all along.

And miracles of miracles—Klaus is not here.

He would have been on her in a moment if he were.

Her staccato heart beat would have drawn him like a flame.

She hurries up the stairs to her bedroom, and drags the travel duffel out from the bottom of her armoire. Hastily, she pokes through the lining, searching for that incision in the silk where she had stashed her secret stash. Her fingers search blindly before finally closing over the vervain.  

It’s hard to be careful with the plant, when she is trying so hard to do this as quickly as possible. Her hands tremble as she pulls it free from its hiding place, and florets scatter to the inside of her bag. She’ll have to carefully gather those, lest she lose any of this precious, dwindling weapon.

She stares at the sprig, counting the pale violet flowers, estimating. Three doses left. A week to go. She’ll have to time her dosages in order to take one the night of the party. Will have to take the risk of skipping one another night in order to time it just right.

If. If she decides to go through with this.

Either way, she decides to stop taking the vervain. Just for a bit. The dosage she took before dinner will probably last her into tomorrow and after that…

Her thoughts skitter and jump over what could happen to her unawares, but she knows she’ll go through with this.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It takes hours for her to sober up.

As she does, the dull creeping horror of what she had almost done claws deeper and deeper into her, a vine beneath her skin, thorns ripping through her flesh to twist into her bones.

Part of her still thinks she should creep back out and throw herself into the river after all, but without the liquor firing her veins, wringing her tears and her blackest heartache out of her, it’s no longer the strongest part. And the weight of all of it—the fear, the shame, the exhausting need for it all to just _end_ —is just too much, so she does what she has always done.

She puts it all aside, and she focuses on the matter at hand.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sometime, later, it’ll occur to her that she’s never had time to unpack any of her grief. Not for her parents, not for herself, not for anyone. But that will be later.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Klaus comes home an hour after dawn.

She’s showered and her powdered sugar stained dress has been balled up and squashed into a corner of the duffel. All evidence of her earlier foray is hidden away. The lights are off, and she lies down on top of the coverlet, staring at the ceiling, her hair dampening the pillow. She’s still awake when she hears him come home, and she doesn’t bother to pretend that she’s been asleep. She’s thought about this for hours. This will all go off much better if she keeps her reaction to tonight’s revelations as close to the truth as possible. He has to believe her, must not suspect her of _more_ , and the truth is the surest path to that.  

There’s a little creak from the hallway outside of her room, and then the door opens, so softly and slowly that she would never have noticed it if she weren’t waiting for it.

Klaus eases into her room and stands at the foot of her bed.

Elena doesn’t acknowledge him, but the way her heart starts to gallop in her chest must surely give away that she knows he’s there.

“You should be asleep,” he tells her softly.

She continues to ignore him. It’s petty and it feels good, to give in to what she _wants_ to do, where he is concerned.

He sits down at the edge of her bed. This close, she can feel the heat radiating from him, and even though she’s furious with him, part of her wishes she could reach out to him. It would be good, right now, not to feel so alone.

“You’ve been crying.”

She turns her back to him and shuts her eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She still hasn’t made up her mind what she’s going to do about Marcel. To join him, or betray him?

But in the meantime, let Klaus think she’s _just_ upset. Let him focus on that, and let the rest remain hidden.

 

 

 

 

 

 

When she doesn’t come downstairs the next morning, Klaus comes up to fetch her.

“Still abed?” He flicks through her wardrobe, picks out a pullover sweater in a pale rose pink and a pair of jeans, which he tosses on the end of the bed. “Get dressed, I want to take you out.”

She doesn’t move.

“What’s this?” he asks.

The anger wells up in her. _“What’s this?”_ she mimics under her breath.

He hears her anyway. His mouth twitches, and she can’t tell if he’s offended or amused. Probably both.

They go for brunch together in a ridiculously picturesque café in sight of the river. The proximity of it tears her thoughts in opposing directions.

She orders coffee, black, but she only pushes her shrimp and grits around with her fork.

For the most part, it’s not too difficult to be in Klaus’s company. He’s only too happy to keep up more than his end of the conversation, and all she has to do is nod, or say _yes_ or say _no._ No need to actually engage him, and she’s already given herself permission to be act as upset with him as she really feels. Yet after a while, Klaus seems to tire of this, and the silence stretches.

“Are you unwell?” he finally asks her.

“Right as rain.”

“That must be cold by now,” he says, indicating her breakfast.  “I’ll order you another plate.”

“Why bother? Does it even matter if I enjoy it?”

“You’re still upset about last night.”

“Gold star for the hybrid,” she tells him acidly, throwing his phrase back at him.

He looks at her like he doesn’t really understand her at all. It’s bewildering, totally topsy-turvy, and reminds her yet again how little he values her as a person, how much he sees her as his possession instead. She hates him so much.

“Even a century ago,” he tells her, length, “this would have been the normal course of things. Womanhood, motherhood—if I had found you a century ago, you wouldn’t fight me on this.”

“It’s not about whether it’s 1910 or 2010.” She cuts a shrimp up into little bitty pieces while she talks. Wishes she were cutting him up. “It’s about you treating me like— like one of your playthings. One of your victims.”

“To be fair, you’re the only one of my victims that’s ever gotten back up again.”

“Is my whole life a joke to you?” It feels good, to let every ounce of her bitterness seep into her voice.  

 He studies her for a beat, and then beckons the waiter over. Does, in fact, order her a fresh plate.

When the waiter disappears, he touches her wrist and draws her gaze over to his. “I want you to stop worrying about the baby. Stop thinking about it at all. Just enjoy yourself.”

The vervain in her system is weaker than it was last night, when Marcel had apparently tried to compel her, because this time, she can feel the command try to take root within her, feel those hooks trying to sink into her mind, the failure like a long scratch against the base of her skull as the vervain shakes the compulsion off.

It had never occurred to her that he would try to compel her. Internally, she scrambles. Hates him just a little bit more for making her pretend to be okay, for denying her the opportunity to take everything out on him as much as he so richly deserves.

Elena offers him a smile, like flipping a switch inside of herself. “Are we going to the museum today?” Perhaps that was laying it on too thick with him, but he _had_ mention the art museum down at the end of Esplanade as somewhere he had wanted to take her. Supposedly, he has a painting there, though she wants to doubt him.

(She had remembered the drawings she had found in his library so many months ago, and she had thought maybe and fought the warmth in her face. What a fool she was.)

The suggestion and the smile seem to satisfy Klaus. Her new plate of food arrives, and this time, she has to make a show of relishing every bite, has to keep up her end of the conversation as Klaus discusses the founding of the museum, the architectural plans, which pieces he insisted on for the initial collection. The usual. She tunes it out a little and focuses on giving him the performance of her life. She laughs. She asks him questions. She wrinkles her nose and rolls her eyes, all of the things she would have done if they had had this conversation yesterday morning instead of today. Every single aspect of her performance, down to the rhythm of her heart, the cadence of her breath, and the tension in her shoulders must be absolutely perfect in order to sell him on this.

If she fails, if her vervain stash is discovered, Klaus will seek a reckoning, she is sure of it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

They take a car down Esplanade into City Park in Mid City, where the live oaks draped in Spanish moss tower over the neo-classical façade of the New Orleans Art Museum.

There’s a retrospective up, showcasing the original collection, and Klaus takes particular satisfaction in telling her about each painting. He stands just behind her, the way he did when they went to the Cabildo _(the way he did when he killed her)_. She tries not to lean into him, to ignore the pull she feels toward his embrace.

Logically, she knows he’s only held her in his arms a handful of times, and almost every single one of those experiences had been horrific for her. And yet, she’s dreamed of him so often, and had been having such a nice time with him until last night, that she has to keep reminding herself where they truly stand.

For the first time, she wishes he would take her back to that awful manor house with its lonely grounds and empty halls. Everything had been clearer back there, and nothing had been _fun_. Locked away like that, there had been no way to ever forget where they stood.

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the third gallery, he pauses and drags her over to the center of the room.

“This is it.”

She stares blankly at the painting. A bowl of cherries on a table top, a crumpled table cloth, a dripping candle.

“This is your painting?”

“Hm. Haven’t seen it in nearly a century.”

“I didn’t expect anything so… ordinary.”

Klaus raises his eyebrow. “What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know. You’re a millennium old. Something profound, I guess. Something more than what we mere mortals paint.” That edges dangerously close to sarcasm, but she catches herself and moderates her tone at the end, and he doesn’t pick up on it.

“Cézanne once said he wanted to astonish Parish with an apple. I admired that about him.” He reaches out and ghosts his hand over the brushwork in the painting. “I wanted to do that too. I had lost all hope of breaking my curse, and I thought I may have to find another way to prove myself. To make something ordinary extraordinary.”

It should be absurd. Klaus, an _Original_ vampire, ordinary. Something about how he says it makes it not, though. He really means it, and though _she_ wishes more than anything to just be an ordinary girl with an ordinary future, she understands him, in that moment, with a clarity that makes her feel unsteady on her feet.

The afternoon drags on. They eventually spill out onto the ground floor, where Klaus takes her over to the café and buys her a latte. The golden four o’clock winter light pours in through the floor to ceiling windows and catches the gold in the hair curling at his nape, the delicate fringe of his eyelashes, pale against his cheek. Everything feels hazy to her as she soaks it in, the unreality of this moment as it subsumes her.  

She blames it on that face, she thinks. If he had not been so beautiful. Observing him now, when he’s not paying attention to her, when he’s doing normal things like fishing cash out of a wallet, she can admit this to herself. There is something about Klaus that magnetizes her, some physical attraction that appeals to her on the deepest level.

That face, and those rare moments of honesty he sometimes offers her, out of the deep blue.

It had been so easy, last night, lying awake in her empty bed, to plan against him, when she hadn’t been confronted with the man himself.

He hands her her latte and his fingers brush against hers.

She can feel herself faltering. Wavering. 

He offers her his arm, and she takes it, and lets him lead her out into the sunshine, to the sculpture garden where he promises her some fine examples of somethings or others.

Arm and arm and it would be nice to let herself forget about last night, to forget about it all and slip back into a kind of happiness that was purely based on momentary sensation and enjoyment.

She imagines that crack in her resolve as a fissure line going through an ice cliff. It’s going to cause a wave when it hits the ocean.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She skips her vervain that night, and the next night too.

Just three doses left, whatever she decides to do about Marcel, and no idea how long Klaus will keep her here, or what she may end up needing it for.

It’s a calculated risk, but a risk all the same.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Before she knows it the week has turned into the next, and she is no closer to really making a decision. Klaus hasn’t so much as mentioned Marcel’s solstice party, and she hasn’t yet devised any plausible not-at-all-suspicious way of bringing it up. It’s tempting to let the date pass and do nothing at all.

The problem is, with each passing day, it’s harder to remain angry with him.

On this particular day, Klaus has left her in the house rather than take her with him. She wonders what he is up to, if he is with Marcel.

For a while, she paces around inside, flips through old books. Almost talks herself into snooping through Klaus’s room. Almost. She consoles herself for this great cowardice by passing the hour before noon in the walled garden. At least it’s in contradiction of Klaus’s standing order not to leave the house without him. There’s not much to see, but the garden is still fragrant with the scent of Confederate jasmine, the winter air still fresh on her face. Quiet as she is, she can hear the sounds of the city like a lifepulse, passerbys and cars and trollies as they make their way by, and in the near distance, the boats on the river.

Sometime in the mid-afternoon, she investigates the kitchen, where the refrigerator is always full of fresh produce and the pantry is mysteriously stocked with spices and staples, even though she and Klaus rarely eat in and she never sees who it is who keeps it so meticulously stocked.

She picks through the refrigerator shelves, dully contemplating how wasteful this lifestyle Klaus has neatly slotted her into truly is. A bowl of red and yellow apples sitting on the top shelf of the refrigerator catches her eye, and before she knows it she is sorting through the spice rack, plucking the cinnamon and sugar and nutmeg from the shelf and thinking about how her mother used to bake apples in the fall, when the first crisp cold snaps would frost the yard in silver ice.

Elena’s already got a sharp knife in her hands, the blade peeling the first ring of skin from the apple, when she pauses, realizing that the last time she had been in a kitchen to cook, she and Damon had made her family’s terrible chili recipe together.

They had parted so poorly.

After all this time, it takes her by surprise, how sharp her longing for him is. How her regret for that time seems to open into an unending cavern in her chest. That sunny August morning in her family kitchen seems impossibly far away now, a dream shimmering on the edge of her mind.

“What are you making?”

The sound of Klaus’s voice, that low burr tinged with the most casual curiosity, startles her from her reverie; the knife slips in her fingers and slices her. She drops the knife. Blood wells to the surface between one heartbeat and the next.

She turns to face him, her hand clutched at her breast, and finds him standing in the doorway, frozen. Drinking in the bloodied sight of her with a fixation that makes the very air feel heavier. 

“Klaus…” She breathes his name, and if it comes out sounding ragged, it’s because it is very hard to think with him looking at her like that. His eyes are very dark when he finally looks up to her face. Those eyes. No longer blue at all, really.  

As though his name had unlocked something within him, he prowls toward her. Instinctively, she backs away, until she connects with the kitchen island. Quicker than thought he has her pinned there, one arm on either side of her, locking her into place.

She swallows, but her mouth is suddenly dry, and her throat clicks painfully. “Klaus,” she whispers his name again. “What are you doing?” He is so terribly close. She clutches her hand tighter against her, away from him. The motion makes the blood flow more freely. She can feel it trickle down the lines of her palm, onto her wrist.

His eyes linger on her fingers, a caress that makes her stomach swoop. “May I?” He says it so softly, so gently. Just like that, she can imagine what it would be like to _let him._

She is very tempted.

“You’re scaring me,” she tells him.

He lets his hand hover just barely over her left breast. She can _feel_ that phantom touch. “Your heart is thundering, it’s true.” He tilts his head, takes a deep, slow breath. “But not for fear.” His voice is low and rough, and so _certain_ of her. “Elena, let me in.” There’s an unspoken question in his low, quiet voice. A persuasive desperation, as though her refusal would just undo him. Part of her knows that this is just more illusion, one more pretty trap meant to seduce her. The other part of her, though, the part of her that she can just barely admit is wildly fascinated by him, _wants_ to be seduced. Is already under his thrall.

Trembling, she uncurls her fingers and offers Klaus her finger.

Slowly, oh so slowly, he wraps his fingers around her wrist and guides her hand to his mouth. And then his lips are on her, his tongue laving the wound, stroking her, coaxing the blood free. Languidly, he works his way down to her wrist and to the inside of her elbow, where the blood has trailed.

Klaus has never touched her like this. Not when he kissed her, and not when he bit her. His touch ignites a fever within her, scorches her like tongues of flame licking their way up the insides of her arm. With her free hand, she gives in to persistent temptation and she lets herself run her fingers through his golden hair. Once she starts, she can’t stop. Klaus growls against her elbow and pushes into her further, works his way up from her elbow to her shoulder to her neck, and somewhere along the line, the nature of his mouth on her changes. She can feel the sharp tips of his teeth grazing over the curve of her throat, but the feel of his mouth over that sensitive spot at the soft juncture between her neck and shoulder is too delicious for her to care. Heat pools between her legs, a feeling that spreads up her sides when he runs his fingers from the swell of her hips to the curve of her ribcage. It’s a full body flush that feeds on the feeling of his hands on her, of his mouth on her.

It is so easy—terribly easy—for her to turn her head, to catch his mouth with hers, to wrap her arms around his neck and bury her hands in his hair and drag him closer.

This kiss is nothing like the one from last fall. Where before, she had been too startled to do more than succumb to his possession of her, here, now, she throws herself enthusiastically into his maddening embrace, kisses him with a desperate ardor born of months of quiet fury and fascination.

Whatever she feels, Klaus does not seem the least bit surprised by this unwieldly _need_ she has. She can feel his smirk against her lips, feel the satisfaction in him as she throws herself into him. His hips pin her against the back of the island, and his hands roam over her body, mapping her, _knowing her_.

She doesn’t put up the least little resistance when he sweeps everything off of the island counter onto the floor, when he places his hands under her thighs and lifts her onto the cold marble surface. It’s all she can do to hang onto him without breaking these blood-simmering kisses, to wrap her legs around him and urge him onto the island with her, so that he is on top of her, so that he is pinioned as close to her as she so desperately needs him to be.

She’s going to hell for this.

She’ll have to worry about that later.

Somewhere along the line she manages to pull Klaus’s shirt off and over his head, revels in the feel of his bare skin under her hands, the power that radiates from every line of him. He tears at her sweater, leaving bite marks on the swell of her breast, the curve of her ribcage, and the tender flesh at her waist as he peals it off of her. He deftly unbuckles and unbuttons her jeans and twists her underwear up and over her knees, distracts her terribly while she fumbles with his pants.

There’s no preamble, no exploratory touches, just Elena, long leg hooked over Klaus’s pale hip and the driving need to have him inside of her. Without her knowing exactly when, that need has become an ache, a powerful emptiness that only he can fill. It coalesces in the pounding of her blood, the insistent slickness between her legs. When he pushes into her, it feels like this moment has always been inevitable, the end she has been careening toward ever since he first offered her his hand.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She blinks into the darkness, lets her eyes adjust to take in the silvery moon shadows skimming over her bed through a crack in the drapes.

One of those shadows is deeper than the rest.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s not like she remembers everything the next morning super well. Just the faint sense that she’d been dreaming about something the night before. Dreaming about something that, when she thought about it, caused a slight warming of her body. Some misty dream that had left an almost imperceptible tackiness to her skin when she awoke, as though she had been perspiring in her sleep. What it had been about nags at her all the next morning, while she’s straightening her hair, while she’s putting on her makeup. It’s not until she sees Klaus of course that the immediate twinge between her legs causes her to remember.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oh, how she remembers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Distantly, she thinks she can hear the beginnings of that avalanche hitting the open water.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Where are you going?”

“Out. No need to fret, I’ll be back by sunrise.”

“You always say that. I don’t know how much longer I can just,” and here she throws her hands up to form the air quotes, “ _Not fret_.”

“Why, do you miss me when I’m gone?”

She chooses not to answer that. “How much longer are we going to be here, anyway?”

“No need to be shy about it if you do, sweetheart.”

“ _Klaus_.”

“I think I like our domestic situation here. Don’t you? No reason to hurry back.”

Domestic situation. It strikes her that Klaus is always looking for the combination that will make him happy at last. Odd, the way her heart races when she thinks that this could be it.  

“What about Rebekah and Stefan? Your hybrids? Are we just ditching them?”

He shrugs. “Only until I have need or want of them again.” He checks his coat pocket, and then he’s out the door.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Elena paces the halls. The solstice is just three nights away. It’s been a terrible gamble, but she hasn’t taken any of her vervain since her conversation with Marcel last week. She still doesn’t know what to do. Rationally, she knows teaming up with Marcel is an opportunity she cannot afford to miss. After almost five months of captivity, this has been her only meaningful opportunity to escape in a way that will also take down Klaus. If he were bound… if he were bound, then he wouldn’t be any more powerful than any of the other Originals. She’s already taken down Elijah once. Taken down an Original. She would bet on herself to do it again. _(She will always bet on herself.)_ And then she could return home.

But all of those speculations are moot, of course, because her heart… Her heart, despite everything with Klaus, despite all of the just awful, _awful_ torment he’s put her through, is undeniably drawn to him.

_(It’s a weakness she blames on her Petrova heritage.)_

She glances at her wrist watch, a pretty silver chain with a delicate oval face, something Klaus had gifted her. Half past midnight. Hours and hours to go before he returns.

She pauses, frustrated with herself for _wanting_ him to come back. Scrubs her hands through her hair, takes ten deep, slow breaths.

Downstairs, one of the doors creaks open.

He’s back early then. Relief shoots through her, followed quickly by an intense wave of irritation at herself for feeling this way.

She descends the stairs slowly, doing her best to project a disinterested air. “You’re back early. Is there something…” She trails off, looking at the group of strangers huddled in the front foyer, led by an unfortunately familiar fortune-teller. Her eyes cannot help but linger on where the door has been broken in.

So, probably not just a fortune-teller.

She swallows, her throat clicking tight on the motion. “May I help you?” she asks, finally, at a loss how to handle this.

Agnes steps forward. “Klaus Mikaelson has sent us for you. We need you to come with us. Hurry.”

“Let me get my coat.”

She keeps her pace steady as she makes it up the stairs, brisk, but not so fast as to give anything away.

Once she reaches the top of the landing, she darts into her room, shuts the door and throws the lock. Every second she can buy might count.

Hastily, she drags her duffle out of her armoire and rifles through it, fumbling for the hole in the lining where she hides her secrets. Her hand closes around the hilt of the bone blade just as she hears a pounding on the door. An odd friction slides against her skin when she touches it, just like the last time, but she shoves any thoughts of the sensation away.

Elena tucks the blade into the back waistband of her jeans and hurries to the window. Yanks the heavy silk curtains out of the way. Not good. The windows are sealed shut. Even if she breaks the window, the sheer drop below onto the street sure to break an ankle at the very least. She’ll have to risk it.

The pounding stops. She glances back at the door just in time to see the lock turn over by itself and the door burst open, wood splintering into the air. One of the men Agnes had brought with her stands just outside the threshold, hands down and at his side. Not the usual way to break down a door. If she had been uncertain before, there is no doubt left that she is dealing with a witch coven.

The memory of Agnes’s disturbing interest in her sends a shiver up her spine. Why had she been so intrigued? The obvious answer, that she had somehow sensed what Elena _is_ , hangs in the back of Elena’s mind, an ominous dark cloud over her thoughts.

The witch raises his hand, and she braces for it, that crushing blackness that comes when magic overpowers the mind, but Agnes pushes her way past him, throws an arm out behind her. “Stop! We must not damage her.” Agnes turns to Elena. “Come with us now, child. Do not be afraid. We will not harm you.”

By this time, Elena has heard so many lies. Is so _sick_ of being lied to.

 She’s not given a choice in the end. The two male witches drag her out by the arms, totally immune to her struggle to break free.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of your lovely reviews, I appreciate each and every one! More soon. Leave me a review to let me know what you think, or drop me a line on tumblr over at livlepretre
> 
>  
> 
> **Based on a few reviews I've received for this chapter, I wanted to clarify the following:
> 
> 1) When Klaus compels Elena to stop worrying about the baby, the compulsion doesn't actually work, because of course the vervain is still in her system from the night before-- it's the same reason Marcel couldn't compel her in the previous chapter. So everything after the compulsion is Elena pretending to stop worrying, putting on the show of her life for him while still furious and upset and spiraling. Of course, the line between pretending and actually being get very blurry for her, just like her moral compass gets incredibly blurred on the show. 
> 
> 2) The sex scene is, alas, another dream. More on all of this in the next chapter though!


	21. Twenty-One

 

 

 

 

 

 

_When I was little, your mom used to tell me bedtime stories. Stories about vampires. I never thought that what she said could be true._

 

 

 

 

 

 

They bring her to one of the cemeteries.

_(Cities of the Dead,_ Klaus’s voice whispers across her mind)

A handful of other witches are already waiting for them when they arrive, and there’s a palpable tension in the air.

One of them, a pretty, dark-haired girl with delicate features, steps forward. “Agnes, this isn’t the way, you have to stop this.”

“Do you want to take our rightful place in the Quarter back or not, Sophie?”

“You know I do, but there are other ways! We can’t just—“

“Stand down.” Agnes isn’t even looking at Sophie when she speaks, instead inspecting a long blade that gleams silver in the moonlight. “Bring me the girl.”

_No no no no no no no no no_

The words throb through Elena’s body with each urgent pump of blood. It’s all too clear what Agnes has brought her here for. Another sacrifice.

She won’t go through with this. Not for nothing, not again. When the big male witch grabs her, she struggles desperately to dig her heels into the ground, to force her body back, away from that sacrificial knife. It’s no use. He twists her arms behind her back and shoves her forward, toward that dark and unwanted ending.

Somehow, it doesn’t have the same ring of fate to it as all of this had had before, by the light of the pale spring moon. _Perhaps Klaus is right about destiny after all_ , she thinks, just before her mind goes blank with panic.

“What _is_ that rule again about doing magic?” calls a smooth voice from atop one of the mausoleums. Elena jerks in the witch’s grasp, searching desperately for the figure she hopes to see—and there he is. Marcel, a cluster of what must be his vampire followers behind him, his gaze cold and imperious as it sweeps over the scene. For just a moment, they lock eyes, before he turns his attention back to the witches. To Agnes. “Oh yeah,” he continues, “You _can’t_ do magic. So I have to ask myself, what _was_ that twenty minutes ago? And why does this look like the prelude to another transgression?” He jumps down from the mausoleum.

Instantly, the witch holding her hostage drops one of her arms in order to fire an attack against him.

Too fast to think about it, Elena reaches back with her free arm, grasps the dagger, and plunges it into the witch’s chest, up and under the ribcage. It’s the same motion she would use to stake a vampire. The same horrible motion she used to dagger Elijah. His blood slides hot over her fingers, but she doesn’t let hesitation slow her for even an instant before she is pushing that body away from her. To hesitate would be to die.

She takes off at a staggering run.

Behind her, she can hear the chaos unfolding, the screams billowing into the night air like a plume of winter smoke.

She runs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

At the front door, a pair of hands grab her around the shoulder and spin her. “Where the bloody hell have you been?” Klaus growls.

She reels in his grip. Relief at seeing him _(Agnes could never get at her so long as Klaus is with her)_ wars with her fury that he has left her defenseless in this maelstrom of a city, stuck here indefinitely with no clear idea of what is going on. Nearly sacrificed and no idea _why_. And the feel of that dagger in her hands, the shock of it as she drove it home—She twists, trying to free herself. “Let go of me, Klaus.”

He ignores her of course, instead dragging her toward the front door.

Overcome, emotions ragged, she rears back and slaps him, as hard as she can. Doesn’t care how much it hurts her arm, it’s worth it just to strike out at someone. Blood still sticks to her hand. The blow leaves a great red splotch on his cheek that he wipes at unconsciously as he studies her. Everything about the motion is so casual, so thoughtless, as he makes to haul her off again, and that blood came from _her_ , her hands made that wound, that blood is on _her_ _(and Jenna’s blood and John’s blood and Zoe’s blood and Matt’s blood and there is so much_ blood _on her hands)_. “Fuck you, Klaus,” she spits. “I’m done being dragged through hell for you.”

“Elena.” He says her name so seriously. Like he’s trying to soothe a skittish animal. It breaks apart the hard knot of her anger, cuts right through the quick of her horror, to hear her name like that from him. He continues in that same soft, firm voice. “We’re going to go inside, and you’re going to tell me exactly what happened while I was away.”

He spares only a glance for the broken front door, blown quite literally off its hinges. Obviously, he’s already seen it.

They settle in the front parlor. The low nineteenth century sofa faces a cold amber marble fireplace, but with warm yellow lamplight flooding the room, there’s something comforting about this place, especially after the frozen blue moonlight of tonight’s near miss. There’s so little to find comfort in, right now, that she lets herself cling to this. To him.

Klaus’s eyes linger on her bloody fingers. The look summons up a sharp memory of that dream, and for just a moment she wonders what would happen if she held her fingers out for him.

“Tell me,” he says, the command so simple that there is no choice but to comply.

“There were these witches.” She takes a deep breath, asks the question that has been bothering her so much since she realized how _vulnerable_ Klaus had left her whenever he went out without her. “Did you know about them, Klaus? That they thought they might use me for _yet another_ creepy sacrifice? Because they just burst through the door, and there wasn’t a thing I could do to stop them grabbing me.” She’s watching him hard, ready to catch the least little subterfuge.

His jaw clenches when she tells him this, but all he says is, “Obviously you are unharmed.” After all these months with him, she’s learning to read between the lines. It’s more a question than a statement.

“I got lucky.”

“Who took you?” he prods her. “What was the name?”

She imagines she can see the murder working itself out behind his eyes. He’s furious. If Marcel hasn’t already wiped them out, Klaus surely will.

“Her name was Agnes.” She pauses, unsure if she should say any more. It’s likely that she’s just condemned Agnes to death, giving her Klaus’s name. “But Klaus. Some vampires showed up, right before… Some vampires showed up. Knew they’d been using magic. _Knew it_ , Klaus, like they have a detection system or something.”

He doesn’t look the least bit surprised by this revelation.

“How did you bloody your hand?”

She blanches, remembering the wet slide of that peculiar blade, the one she had snatched from the plantation despite her suspicions about it, as it sunk into the witch’s chest.

_Not his chest_ , she thinks. _His heart_. _His mortal heart._

A wave of nausea nearly overcomes her. She stares at her fingers. Feels a powerful disgust toward herself, for that stray fantasy of moments ago. _He would have killed me. It was him or me._ Yes. They were going to kill her, that unnamed witch she stabbed _(killed)_ was going to hold her down while Agnes slit her throat or bled her out or whatever it was they were going to do. She’s be dead right now, if she hadn’t made her move. If Marcel hadn’t intervened. _Him or me._ What did that make her, that she had been able to so effortlessly make that choice?

_You’re so cruel._

_It’s in my nature. And in yours._

“I’m tired. I’d like to go to bed.”

He lets her go.

She has a lot to think on.

It seems wise to resume her vervain.

 

 

 

 

 

 

They don’t go out the next day.

It’s not quite one o’clock, and Klaus has immersed himself with an old book that he holds out carefully, as though the pages would crumble if he turns them too quickly. Infuriatingly, last night does not seemed to have spurred him on one way or another.

“Would you be a dear and stop your pacing? It’s a tad distracting,” he tells her without taking his eyes off what he is reading.

She freezes and glares at him, but when he still doesn’t look up from his book, she throws herself into an armchair across from him and jiggles her foot against the coffee table. After last night, the tedium is killing her.

Klaus peers at her over the top of the book. “You seem like you have something to say.”

She bursts from the chair again and resumes her pacing. “You can’t just pretend like last night didn’t happen. You need to tell me what’s going on.” She pauses. “One way or another, I’m involved now. You need to let me help.”

He scoffs. “Don’t be absurd. You’d be a terrible liability.”

“Look, we have to handle this soon. Else, they’re just going to come back for me.” The party is tomorrow night. He’s _got_ to have the same clock ticking down in his mind as she does in hers. Unless, of course, she is overplaying its significance relative to everything else.

“You don’t even know what you’re proposing to venture into.”

“Last night I told you those vampires knew that the witches had done magic. It was like they were responding to it, like they had a radar for it or something. But that wasn’t news for you. What do you know about it?” _And why weren’t you with Marcel last night?_ And a quieter voice inside herself asks: _Why weren’t you there to save me?_

He shuts the book and tosses it onto the table. “If I answer your questions, will you find something quiet to do? Despite appearances, I’m working on something.”

“Yes.” Scheming could be very quiet work. She just needs something to work from. Anything.

“The vampires knew the witches were doing magic, because they _do_ have a method of detection.”

“One of the vampires said it was against the rules.” After a beat, she adds, like it’s not important at all, “One of the witches called him Marcel.”

He looks at her sharply. “Their ringleader. Has the French Quarter coven thoroughly trussed. Kills the unlucky witch he catches working a spell.”

His words paint Marcel in a considerably more unfavorable light. Yet, those witches had been about to perform a human sacrifice, so maybe Marcel’s rules can’t be such a bad thing. Maybe the witches here _needed_ to be contained.

“Why would they risk him finding them, to… use me for their spell?” she finishes.

Klaus’s eyes gleam. “Therein lies the answer to _my_ question, sweetheart. It’ll be interesting to find out.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

He leaves that afternoon, and Elena goes up to her room. Whatever is going to happen, will happen soon. She swears to herself that, one way or another, she’s not going to sit this one out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Klaus bursts through the front door just a few hours after he left. A spot of dried blood mattes the hair at his temple, another trickle dried over his lip. She watches from where she’s sprawled out on the sofa as he slams the door and scrubs his hands through his hair.

“It’s a plot,” he tells her, without elaborating further.

Now, he’s the one pacing, muttering to himself. Elena throws herself toward him, grabs hold of his arms.

“Klaus, Klaus, slow down. Tell me what happened.”

“I found your answers, of course. Found out about the little Harvest witch who wasn’t harvested a few months back, whose been doing Marcel’s bidding. She’s a _Claire_ witch,” he spits, as though any of this means anything to her.

He’s not making any sense. She grabs on to the first thing she can to try to start putting the pieces together.

“Why does that matter, that she’s a Claire witch?”

“I ever tell you why I daggered my dear brother Kol?”

She shakes her head. She’s never even heard the name before.

“He had a plot, beginning of the last century. A coup d’état. Planned to forge a weapon that would work on me, despite my hybrid nature. Naturally, I found out, and put an end to him and the witches who helped him.”

The plot holes in this story are a mile wide, but that’s typical. Trust him never to trust anyone with too many details, especially about any potential weapon that would work on him.

“I don’t understand. Where do the Claire witches come in?”

He breaks free of her and prowls the hallway, his movements too harsh and sudden for a human. “Oh! It was a Claire witch who worked my dear brother’s spell in the first place. And it was Marcel— _Marcel_ , my old protégé!— who helped me foil the plan in the first place! Don’t you see? He _knows_ about the weapon, and he’s got the right witch for the forging of it, and he’s got the ingredients at his fingertips at the Abattoire because _I left them there when I fled!_ I’ll be there tomorrow night, you know, he’s invited me, and he just expects me to _walk into his trap! Just like that!”_

_You know how he is._

_Paranoid?_

_Ranting and raving and breaking things whenever he gets angry. It was hard to follow._

God, she how she relates to Tyler right at this moment.

She still doesn’t really understand what it is he’s trying to explain to her. It’s like flipping a book open right in the middle, no context, and discovering that on top of everything else, the pages are out of order, some of them missing altogether. None of this quite matches up with what Marcel had revealed to her last week, either. He’d mentioned a binding spell, not a weapon.

What she does understand is that he can’t do this alone. Klaus is like a livewire, snapping and sparking at random. He’ll never solve this by himself. She thinks about him, the way he seems to her in those increasingly less rare moments when she catches him off guard and he offers her these little truths about himself, and so disarms her totally. This terribly lonely man, always looking for a family, a friend. Marcel had been that to him, once, she thinks. His protégé, he had called him. And now he’s trying to kill him. What would that feel like?

“Let me help you.”

She offers this without forethought and without artifice.

Klaus freezes where he stands.

“Sorry, what?”

Elena steps in front of him and catches his gaze. “Let me help you,” she tells him, with all of the strength she can gather in her voice.

Klaus stares at her, mouth agape. He collects himself. “Why would you want to help me? I’d think you’d be _pleased_.”

She should be. But the thought of Klaus, facing this alone… It hurts her, a little bit. Slowly, she takes his hand. That feeling again, like a current between them. “You feel this too, right?” His fingers twitch in her grasp. She dares to look up at him through her lashes.

He stoops down so that their faces are very close. All she can see are his eyes, boring into hers. “Are you for true? Do you really want to help me?”

“Yes.” She _means_ it. Knowing him, he’s trying to compel her but she doesn’t even have to lie to him. He hears that ring of truth and she can see the moment he takes it inside of himself.

The moment hangs heavy, and if she doesn’t break this tension, she’s going to do something she’s not quite ready for yet.

“Besides,” she tells him, trying to break the mood, “how else am I going to have my revenge on those witches?”

It works. His lips quirk and he moves back, away from her. Temptation passes.

“What makes you think you’re going anywhere _near_ them?”

“You just said I could help!”

“No, we just established that your intentions are pure. So to speak. But I’ve no intention of putting you anywhere near the danger.”

She crosses her arms and tries very hard not to tap her foot. He’s so exasperating! Like dealing with Damon but worse. “It’s too late for that, Klaus. The witches know where I am, and if there’s some link with Marcel, then he might know about me too. Whatever your next move is, I want in on it.”

“No.” He walks past her, pours himself a drink from the bar.

“Did Stefan ever tell you that I daggered Elijah once?”

He sets the bottle down and faces her. “You must’ve botched the job, then, because I seem to remember doing that very thing after the sacrifice.”

Well then. That answers one of her questions. Ruthlessly, she pushes the thought away, shakes her head. “I undaggered him later. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“By all means,” he prompts, flicking his fingers in a _go on then_ motion. “Tell me the tale.”

She walks over to him and helps herself to the drink he’d poured himself. He lets her. “It was last spring. We’d had a deal that fell apart. I wanted to renegotiate, but he wanted to take me away until the sacrifice, so that no one I loved would ever see me again.”

“Good man, Elijah,” Klaus murmurs while he pours himself a fresh glass of bourbon. “Can’t fault his strategy. Where’d it go wrong for him then?”

“Oh. I successfully renegotiated.” She lifts the corner of her shirt up, where a razor thin silver scar runs over the flat of her abdomen. “I took a kitchen knife and I stabbed myself with it. Almost bled out right there, because I wouldn’t let him heal me unless he agreed to my terms.” Klaus’s eyes are riveted to the spot on her stomach. He always hates these stories, these reminders of how many times she’d almost died before he met her. There’s something sick to that. Something about how it’s not that she almost _died_ , it’s that she almost died _before he had his shot at her_. She takes a sip of her drink to steady herself. “He agreed, of course, finally, so I stumbled over the threshold and into his arms. And used my last remaining strength to drive the dagger I’d kept hidden into his heart.” Elijah had clutched at her as the life left him. He’d been so palpably relieved, she recalls, to have her in his arms. To have the chance to save her.

Beside her, Klaus is quiet while he listens to her. She wonders what hearing this must be like for him, hearing from her about the brother with whom he could never quite find a balance.

“Where did you get the dagger?” Klaus asks after a while.

“My uncle. He was my biological father. He was desperate to save me.” She clears her throat, which has gone oddly tight as she thinks on last spring, and sets the remainder of her drink on the lip of the bar. “So anyway, the point is, if I can take on your brother, I can definitely hold my own against a few witches and some regular vampires.”

“You won that round against Elijah through subterfuge alone.”

“You’d be surprised how far that can take a girl. That, and holding my cool under pressure. So. What’s the plan?”

When he doesn’t respond she turns to him. “Klaus, don’t you _want_ help?”

She can feel the moment he relents. Between one breath and the next, all of that fierce tension just drains out of his body. “You’re not going to be taking on any witches _or_ vampires, alright?”

“Okay.”

“You’re going to come along in a strictly reconnaissance role. No confrontations.”

“Fine.”

He sighs. “You’d best sit, then. We have a lot to discuss.” 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They light the fire, and they talk.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You said, _come along_. Where?” She knows where, hopes she knows where.

“Marcel has conveniently invited me to his solstice party tomorrow night. The venue is my old abode. As I said, I’m sure it’s a trap. Care to be my date?”

_His date._ Her heart races. All this time, trying to figure out how to go if she decides to betray Klaus, and now that she has decided against it, he miraculously proffers her the invitation. Could it be so easy?

 

 

 

 

 

 

“If I’m going to help you, I need the full story.”

“You wheedled your way into this. Why should I indulge you?”

“You _love_ telling stories. And besides. I can’t go in without knowing exactly what I’m getting into.”

He rolls his eyes, and then he indulges her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He tells her the most bizarre story.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I’m here for the werewolves, of course.”

“Oh, obviously. For your hybrids.”

He nods. “I thought the loup-garou packs here would be an easy addition to my army.”

“So why weren’t they?”

“Well, to begin, it seems there’s a curse.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

“So you need the witches to break the curse—“

“But Marcel has control of the witches. Terribly annoying. Not to mention it seems their little ritual sacrifice went rather poorly last time. Probably makes them too weak right now to unbind the werewolves anyway.” He mulls that over. “Now, if I can get a hold of the Claire witch and deliver her to them, _there_ would be a way to restore them while tying a string to the coven. Gratitude always goes a long way.”

“You told me she’s a _child_ , Klaus. You can’t do that.”

He stares at her levelly. “Sure I can. It was much harder to sacrifice you last spring, and I hardly hesitated at all.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

“What do you think they were trying to do?” she finally asks him. They’re curled up on the couch together, Klaus facing forward, Elena facing him. If he turned, they would be very close indeed. “The witches, when they tried to sacrifice me. Why were they doing that?”

Klaus shrugs. “Someone in that coven at some point figured you out. Could have happened any time, I suppose, all that mystical energy you put off.”

“What?” He’s always telling her these unnerving things about how she smells or feels to him. She wonders if she’ll ever stop being offput by it all.

“Mystical energy. Your blood’s still potent as ever. Can feel it, if I’m close enough. Makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up sometimes, being near you. I expect a witch might be able to pick up on that as well.”

“So, what. They thought they could kill me instead of the last remaining Harvest witch? That doesn’t sound right.”

“Might not have been a permanent solution, but it might have worked well enough for a temporary fix. Long enough for them to overpower Davina and get what they want from her.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Is this all just about power for Marcel then? Bind the werewolves, control the witches, and give his vampires free reign over the city?”

“It’s always about power, sweetheart. Just a matter of who’s the one wielding it, at the end of the day.”

_I’m not the Prince. I’m the King._

And she suspects she’s looking at the Pretender to the Throne.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Repeat the plan back to me.”

“We’ve already been over it twice.”

“Repeat the plan back to me.”

She rolls her eyes. It’s a simple plan. Really, it is.

And yet. She’s done this too many times to dare think, _what could go wrong?_

 

 

 

 

 

 

The fire is burned down to just the embers. In a few moments, the last log will collapse in itself, sending sparks up as it dies.

She feels warm and drowsy from all the bourbon, from the heat of the fire and the press of Klaus’s body close beside her. She must be nodding off, because the next thing she knows, Klaus has plucked her from the sofa and is carrying her up the stairs to her bed. It’s so very lovely to tuck her face against his neck and let him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s that feeling again, like a sharp nail trailing from the back of her skull down her neck, that wakes her.

She opens her eyes and stares straight up into Klaus’s face as he sits at her bedside. “You fell asleep by the fire,” he tells her softly. His fingers graze over her shoulder. “Go back to sleep.”

Dutifully, she closes her eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It seems like forever before he leaves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

For a long time, she doesn’t let herself think of anything, just lets herself float along, eyes shut, the soft sounds of the city at night in her ears.

If she opens her eyes, she’s afraid she’ll see the shadow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Klaus leaves. Her heart pounds. Panic rises within her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Because the thing is, she recognizes what that feeling is _—like spiderwebs clinging to the  brain like glass sinking into the nape of her neck like the roar of river water in her ears—_ she knows what it is because she’s felt it before and she knows what it’s like when a vampire casts out a net of compulsion, only for that web to snag – _for just one paralyzing moment!_ – before releasing and sliding back uselessly, like a wave on the beach.

And suddenly, everything is sharp and clear in a way it _hasn’t been_ , not for months, not since she first started _dreaming about him_. God, she’s such an _idiot_. He’s been in her head, sending her these dreams, making her sympathize with him and changing how she feels about him and making her— _oh my God!_ —fantasize about his mouth on her, between her legs, at her throat, making her speculate about what he would taste like and _exactly_ what it would feel like to just give in and have him inside of her and in this terrible, crashing moment, she thinks, why is she even _tempted_ to _just give in_ , except that he’s put that thought in her head?

_How how how how how had she missed this?_ How had she not even considered that he would be manipulating her? In what _sane_ world would she _ever_ offer him help? And mean it!

_In what sane world could she ever forget about what he did to Jenna?_ asks a small voice inside herself. She hasn’t heard that voice in months now.

She’s going to throw up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the bathroom, she stares at herself in the mirror. It’s still dark outside. Not total darkness, but the deep grey of pre-dawn. Just enough light to see herself by. She doesn’t turn on the light, doesn’t think she could bear to see herself reflected in such detail.

Her shoulder feels strained. 

Half-hysterically, she peels off the sweater she’d never changed out of before going to sleep and stares at the web of bruises that cross from shoulder to neck. She fists her hand in her mouth to keep from screaming and bites down, breathing hard.

Just this morning she would have dismissed this. She would have said, _oh, the witches did this to me._ But now…. But now but now but _now—_

_What if it’s not just dreams?_

The thought—the violation—is too much for her to dwell on for long. Perhaps she’ll be ready to think about it more deeply tomorrow night, when this is finished with. Perhaps then she can turn herself down that path, but for now—

 

 

 

 

 

 

—For now, it’s Jenna she thinks on. The aunt who loved her and died for her, who did the best she could to take up where her mother left off, who one day got a phone call and rushed headlong into danger because she thought her niece needed her. Jenna, who Klaus killed out of nothing, in the end, but a shallow sort of spite. Not even aimed at her, really. He hadn’t known her then He’d killed Jenna because she, Elena, had had the Petrova face and he had wanted to lash out at her because of it.

The fury these thoughts churn up feels good. Feels right. Like she’s thinking clearly for the first time in ages. Klaus _deserves_ for her to double-cross him. And Jenna deserves to have her murdered brought to justice, even if it’s a justice of Elena’s own devising.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next evening, Elena stands in front of the long stand mirror in her room, smoothing a black silk dress over her hips. She’d chosen it because the full skirt would hide anything she chose to place in its pockets. And because black suits her, the perpetual mourner.

Behind her, Klaus clears his throat. He looks terribly handsome, in a stark black suit and his hair slicked back.

“Are you ready, my dear?”

She slinks over to him, aware of the way he tracks her every movement, and links her arm through his.

“I am.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Revenge is a terrible thing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, YES, as many of you have guessed, Klaus has been in Elena’s dreams—he’s a terrible creep, so of course he has been. 
> 
> I know a lot of you have been hoping Elena wouldn’t betray Klaus… but doesn’t he deserve it? And wouldn’t it be something to see Elena take some of her own back? 
> 
> Next chapter: The New Orleans Arc Finale!! 
> 
> Please drop me a review if you’re enjoying xoxo


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